The Cuckoo Child (6 page)
‘Hey, Dot!’ It was Fizz, sitting comfortably on his laundry basket and grinning conspiratorially at her. ‘Wanna seat? There’s room for two if you can fight your way down here.’
Dot began to wriggle past strap-hanging passengers as the train started to move, cursing inwardly. It was just like Fizz to call attention to her when the last thing she wanted was to be noticed, but she sank down on the laundry basket, then glanced furtively round her. To be sure, she was low down, but after a couple of moments of staring she was reasonably certain that the weasel-faced one was not amongst those present and felt her heart, which had been thumping noisily, slow to a steadier pace.
‘Dot? Whazzup? You look all hot and bothered.’ Her pal grinned at her. ‘Someone pinch your bum when you was in the crowd on the platform? I saw you lurch forward, like – give me quite a turn it did.’
Dot stared at him. ‘Someone shoved me,’ she said in a husky whisper. ‘Did you see who done it, Fizz?’
Fizz gave a hoarse guffaw. ‘Someone shoved you? I reckon half a dozen shoved me. I near as damn it went down in front of the train. It were only me laundry basket what saved me. You’d think that folk off for a bit of a holiday would be more careful, but not them. Anyroad, what makes you think you’re so special?’
Fizz had a loud voice, which he had to raise in order to combat the train’s clatter. ‘Hush! I don’t think I’m special,’ Dot said, wincing. ‘It were an accident, I’m sure; I just wondered if it were someone from school, playing a trick on me, like.’
Fizz grunted. ‘I didn’t see no one I knew, but then I didn’t look, pertickler,’ he said. ‘I wish me mam had something good planned for Monday, but she’s a bit short of the ready right now. Wharrabout your Aunt Myrtle? I don’t s’pose she’s plannin’ to take you an’ your cousins off for the day, is she?’
Dot made a derisive noise in the back of her throat. ‘Poor Aunt Myrtle never has a penny over once we’s all fed,’ she told her pal. ‘And if she had, Uncle Rupert would get it off her, though things are lookin’ up a bit now Sammy’s earnin’. He told me uncle straight out that if he tried to touch a penny of his wages – Sammy’s, I mean – he’d go straight to the nearest scuffer and report he’d been robbed. Uncle Rupert tried to give him a swipe but Sammy punched him on the nose and it bled buckets, so now Aunt Myrtle’s made the same threat and I do think me uncle’s a bit more careful . . . he asked Aunt Myrtle for a couple of bob last weekend and when she said she hadn’t got it he didn’t belt her, norreven a little bit.’
Fizz gave her a curious look and Dot realised, with some dismay, that the private life of the Brewster family was something which she had never before revealed to Fizz, knowing his weakness for gossip. Indeed, she would not have done so now had she not been anxious to turn his thoughts away from the shove on the underground platform.
It was at this point that the train stopped at Hamilton Square and everyone began to get out. Fizz and Dot, thanks to the laundry basket, were amongst the first to alight and presently they set off in the direction of the boys’ school, chatting amiably as they walked. Dot looked around her with feigned interest but in fact she saw very little of her surroundings since her mind was still preoccupied with what had happened just before the train had come into the station. If Ollie had recognised her and decided to kill her, he must have had a hundred opportunities before now. But, thinking it over, she decided that she was almost certainly making a mountain out of a molehill. Weeks and weeks had passed since the robbery and no one had attempted any sort of aggression against her. Why should it happen now? From the back, with her hair plaited and washed to a far paler shade than it had been on the night of the robbery, it seemed most unlikely that he could have picked her out as the girl running out of the jigger. It was not as though she was wearing the necklace, and though she had visited the graveyard several times she had not once disinterred her prize, though secretly she was longing to do so. She wanted to see it in daylight, to see how the beautiful green stones would glitter as sunshine touched them. But she had resisted temptation and had felt a growing confidence that, if she continued to be careful, she would remain safe. It was only if she tried to inform on the butcher and his pal that she might run into trouble, she concluded; or, of course, if she confided in anyone else regarding the robbery, and the murder which had followed it.
‘Here we are; we turn in up that long drive and go round the back, Mam says,’ Fizz told her, a trifle breathlessly. ‘Once we’ve got rid of the laundry we can come back to the centre of town and catch a bus up to New Brighton.’
Dot beamed at him. ‘So we
are
going to the seaside,’ she said gleefully. ‘Oh, Fizz, you’re a grand feller, so you are! It’ll make up for . . .’ Her voice trailed away. She thought, guiltily, that she really must watch her tongue; she had very nearly given herself away. Fizz looked at her enquiringly, so she hastened to end the sentence. ‘. . . for not being able to go to the Saturday rush,’ she said glibly. ‘Let’s hurry!’
are
going to the seaside,’ she said gleefully. ‘Oh, Fizz, you’re a grand feller, so you are! It’ll make up for . . .’ Her voice trailed away. She thought, guiltily, that she really must watch her tongue; she had very nearly given herself away. Fizz looked at her enquiringly, so she hastened to end the sentence. ‘. . . for not being able to go to the Saturday rush,’ she said glibly. ‘Let’s hurry!’
Crossing the court that evening, Dot thought, blissfully, that the day just ended had been one of the happiest in her life. The sun had shone. She and Fizz had paddled, made a huge sandcastle, and feasted on chips and fizzy lemonade. They had run races along the hard, wet sand, and when the tide came in they had actually bathed; Dot clad only in her knickers and Fizz in his underpants. Dot had gazed at this garment with awe since none of her cousins owned such things, but Fizz had said, complacently, that his mother had advised the donning of them just in case they should end up at the seaside and want to swim.
Swimming, so far as Dot was concerned, was an activity she could not share with Fizz; boys learned to swim either in the baths on Netherfield Road or in the Leeds and Liverpool Canal, usually up by Tate’s. The water there was warm because the factory jettisoned unwanted hot water into that part of the canal, known to the kids as the Scaldy. Girls, however, rarely joined in the sport, so Dot could not swim. But today she had let Fizz hold her up by the chin whilst she did her best to follow his instructions, and for one or two moments had actually kept herself afloat. Naturally, this had made the day even more special, so Dot thanked Fizz fervently for a grand time, waved to him until he disappeared inside his own home and then made her way to No. 6.
She had no means of knowing the time, but dusk was falling and she knew that Aunt Myrtle would have served the evening meal long since. She would not have worried over her niece’s absence, because Dot was often out late in the summer when the evenings were long and light, but she would not have saved her anything other than bread and jam. Not that I need it, Dot told herself buoyantly, letting herself into the house and going towards the kitchen. After all those chips and fizzy lemonade she doubted if she could eat another mouthful.
She opened the kitchen door rather cautiously, because you never knew with Uncle Rupert. He got paid on a Friday but liked to do the majority of his drinking on a Saturday, so if he had spent all his money the previous night he would be home and in a bad temper. However, when she poked her head round the door, the kitchen contained only her aunt and her cousins Dick and Alan. She slipped into the room and grinned at her aunt. ‘Me and Fizz went to New Brighton to deliver some laundry for his mam,’ she said brightly, even though no one had asked her where she had been all day. ‘He tried to teach me how to swim – I nearly can – and we mucked around on the sand all day. It’s all right, his mam said we could; she give us our bus fares and a penny or two over for chips.’ As she spoke, she glanced at the clock above the mantel and saw that it was not yet nine o’clock. Presumably, her uncle was down the pub, and since he never returned till closing time she would be safe enough for a while. She looked, hopefully, at Aunt Myrtle. ‘I know I missed supper and I know I had chips, but I’m awful hungry, Aunt Myrtle. Any chance of a mouthful of bread an’ cheese? It ‘ud go down a treat.’
Aunt Myrtle heaved an exaggerated sigh but went over to the bread crock, got out the loaf and cut a thick slice. Then she took a pot of jam from the cupboard and smeared a small amount over the bread. ‘You know my rules,’ she said. ‘Food’s on the table at six an’ if you’re late, you get nowt. Still, you can fill up on bread and jam. You’re norra bad kid.’
Accepting the bread and jam, Dot had the grace to feel guilty. In point of fact, she was not hungry, but had suddenly realised that it would not do to let her aunt think she was being well fed by someone else or next time she came in, having missed a meal, her aunt would not offer bread and jam. So she settled down to eat the food and found, in fact, that she was glad of it and equally glad of the mug of tea which her aunt handed to her presently.
Dick was sitting at the table with a sheet of newspaper spread out in front of him. He had his father’s boots on the newspaper and was glumly cleaning them. For this task, he would undoubtedly be paid a ha’penny – if his father would not shell out, then his mother would – because, once a month, the whole family went to early Mass on Sunday morning and Aunt Myrtle insisted that they should go in style. Suits, collars and even ties were redeemed from the pawn shop on Saturday night and usually returned on Monday morning, whilst boots and shoes were polished and hair was neatly brushed back and oiled into flatness with Brylcreem if they were in the money, but otherwise with a smear of anything greasy which would keep it down for the duration of the service.
Dot finished her bread and jam, drained her mug and went over to the sink. They had no running water but she noted with approval that the buckets beneath it were all full; Sam or Li had done their chores before going off to enjoy whatever jaunt they were involved in. Sam liked the pictures and Li was a football player. He and his mates had a much prized football which they had all saved up to buy, and would kick it around in one of the parks until it grew too dark to see properly. Then they would sit around yarning and generally mucking about until just before the pubs closed, when they would rush home, anxious to get into bed before their fathers returned. Dot knew that Uncle Rupert wouldn’t even notice whether his sons were home or not, but she supposed other parents might show more interest in their offspring.
Dick seemed to have finished the boots, to his own satisfaction at least, for he got up, placed them side by side with the other footwear and was about to scrumple up the paper when his mother addressed him sharply. ‘Don’t you go fillin’ my rubbish pail up with all that dried mud. Toss it into the court, then fold the newspaper neatly and put it with the others. Then you’d best gerroff to bed, afore your dad comes in. Likely, he’ll be in a good enough mood, but just in case . . .’
Even the thought of Uncle Rupert in a temper was enough to shift his sons. Alan, who had been scribbling on a scrap of paper with a stub of pencil and muttering to himself as he did so, got to his feet with alacrity and headed for the door, whilst Dick shot past him with the newspaper held out before him and was back in a trice, folding the sheet as he came and shoving it amongst the other papers, which his mother kept in a pile beside the water buckets. Dot thought that he had probably shed a good deal of the dried mud as he ran to the door, but she said nothing. After all, when Uncle Rupert came back from the pub, he was unlikely to be in any state to wipe his shoes on the mat, and next morning he and his two eldest sons would doubtless be blamed for the state of the hall floor.
‘Get into bed, chuck,’ her aunt said, as soon as the boys had disappeared. She did not speak unkindly, but there was enough urgency in the remark to make Dot glance up at the clock again. Goodness, it was almost closing time; she and her aunt had best get a move on.
Aunt Myrtle bustled around, clearing the kitchen, putting away anything which her husband might choose to hurl at the wall in a temper, or simply trip over. Then she dipped a large tin mug into one of the buckets of water and set it down in the middle of the kitchen table. Dot was aware that men who have drunk a great deal are astonishingly thirsty after such bouts, and knew that her aunt would fill the enamel jug with water and carry it up to bed with her, just in case her husband made straight for the stairs. Usually, however, he would come into the kitchen first and help himself to a mouthful of cheese, or perhaps an apple, if one of the boys had acquired some fades from the market stalls. He might make a great deal of racket, shout for his wife, and swear at life in general, but, to do him justice, he never deliberately disturbed Dot, and provided she feigned sleep convincingly enough would soon grow tired of the kitchen and lurch out either to sleep on the sofa in the parlour, or to make his stumbling way up the stairs to bed.
It was then, when there had been quiet for ten or fifteen minutes, that Dot would get down from the sofa and extinguish the lamp. With the room in darkness, she would speedily fall asleep, probably not waking until Aunt Myrtle roused her next morning to help get the breakfast. Aunt Myrtle always left the lamp lit in the kitchen because, on the only occasion when she had not done so, Uncle Rupert had lit a newspaper at the fire, meaning to kindle the lamp, and had dropped the paper on the hearthrug, starting a conflagration which had done a good deal of damage to the family’s few possessions. That had been when Dot was only seven, however, still sleeping upstairs in the boys’ room and learning what had happened only when she came down for breakfast next morning. So naturally she was happy for her aunt to leave the lamp lit, preferring it to finding herself in the middle of a raging fire whilst her uncle tried to douse it with buckets of water, and blamed everyone but himself for what might well have been a fatal accident.
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