The Orphan Daughter

by Sheila Riley

  Jack’s footsteps crunched through the snow. He could hear his blood pumping through his veins. The dock road was silent. He had never seen this area so still, with tarpaulin covered wagons lining the granite walls, unable to get through snow-blocked roads.

  Grateful for the canopy of darkness, he pushed through a space in the wooden railings bordering the yards along the docks, suspecting some had been pinched to keep the home fires burning.

  Wary of the lightly sleeping bobby sheltering from the sub-zero elements in his little hut, or wagon drivers tucked up inside their vehicles, filled with precious cargo, a magnet for unscrupulous ne’er-do-wells who would neither work nor want, Jack hurried towards the docks.

  Slipping his wraith-like body through the narrow space between locked storage sheds, Jack prayed that nobody had discovered his stash of kindling. Since the army had been stood down from port duty after the war, this part of the dock was an Aladdin’s Cave of merchandise, which locals would never get their hands on – unless the spivs got there first.

  Darting through the scrapyard hills of iron and steel towering above him, he cut through timber yards full of Canadian lumber that ebbed and flowed on great ships every day.

  When he heard the noise, his head turned on a swivel. His heartbeat accelerated from one to sixty in the time it took to blink. The sound came from the clank of chains hitting the side of a small boat along the dock wall, and he let out a slow, shivering sigh, his fear mixing with the smell of oil and pitch and timber.

  Dropping the thin rope that steered his cart, he blew warm air into his frozen fingers, surveying the area before making his next move. Catching sight of a great black mound he realised, on closer inspection, it was coal. Just sitting there. As high as a house. A few precious nuggets for Lucy would mean the difference between health or hell.

  Some might fall onto the back of his cart if, accidentally on purpose, he slipped and happened to knock the black hill, dislodging a few big pieces… He wasn’t greedy.

  Surveying the abandoned dockyard, he held a silent, one-sided conversation with a higher being. Lucy’s need was greater than his, he reasoned. She was only little. A wee thing. Not nearly as robust as he was. A little bit of coal would go a long way to ease her suffering and had nothing whatsoever to do with his need to thaw his frozen bones.

  Farm labouring in Ireland made him fortunate enough to enjoy good health and strength from an early age, no matter how thin his appearance. But Lucy was another matter… Jack gave the hill a tentative nudge with his cart, stretching his elasticated scruples at the thought of a blazing fire when a few black cobs slid onto the homemade trolley. He would only take enough to get them through. To what though? Mam hadn’t been home for days.

  Picking up some big pieces he put them on the cart. Needs must, and nobody would miss a few measly lumps. Looking over his shoulder, he would have to be nippy. If he got caught, they were both done for.

  When Jack heard another noise, he ignored it. He would be out of here in no time. Then he heard voices. Angry voices. His body tightened. Ready to flee. He held his breath…

  ‘I’m telling you, old man, open it or you’ll be sorry!’

  ‘I’m having no part in it, and that’s that!’ Jack recognised the voice of his neighbour, Mr Harris. The watchman lived a few doors down, and thrilled Jack as a young’un, with tales of how his toes rotted off in the mud-filled trenches of Passchendaele.

  Mr Harris had been an Air Raid Precautions warden during the last war and Jack recalled the old man telling him he was unhindered by having half a foot missing when he dragged dead bodies out of burning buildings. He had seen enough dreadful sights to be afraid of no one.

  ‘Here, what d’you think you’re doing with that thing?’ Mr Harris said. ‘You can’t pull a gun out on people!’

  A gun! Fear like a line of marching ants trickled down Jack’s back when he heard the low tangle of voices squabbling, not ten yards away. As their anger escalated, Jack lost focus and he slipped. Digging his heels into the deep snow, his flailing hands caught hold of a thick chain protruding from the dock wall and his body stopped with a jerk almost pulling his arm out of its socket. Holding his shoulder, he dared not cry out in pain.

  Don’t move, Jack! He was certain the voice inside his head was trembling. His foot gave way, and he slipped some more. The coal shifted. Some of it rolled. Conspicuously black against the virginal snow. The squabbling stopped. Jack held his breath…

  ‘Rats?’ the old man said further down the quay when he heard the coal hill shift, invading his heightened senses. The put-put-putting of the lorry’s engine filled the air with the smell of petrol.

  ‘It didn’t sound like no rat to me,’ another, unfamiliar voice said. ‘It’d have to be bloody strong to move a big hill of coal.’

  ‘Open the door, old man, or else…’ The sound of metal chains and the squeal of rusty hinges did nothing to mask the threat in the gunman’s voice.

  Don’t open the door, Mr Harris! the voice inside Jack’s head cried while he remained silent. He peered through the falling snow, which wasn’t heavy enough to block out the dark silhouettes moving about under the flicker of dipped headlights. The opening of the warehouse doors widened, and a flat-backed lorry edged inside.

  Jack knew he had to get out of here, before his eyes saw something he would regret. A bundle of driftwood and a few cobs of coal were never so dangerous to come by. Edging back, with his one good arm he grabbed the thin rope and started to move the cart.

  Maybe the weight of combustibles caused the cartwheels to squeak, Jack wasn’t sure, but he knew one thing – he had made a right pig’s ear of collecting his swag. The first chance he got he was legging it! But not without the wood. From the corner of his eye he noticed two men jumping down from the lorry. His curiosity got the better of him and he paused.

  One man followed the truck into the warehouse, while another backed the old watchman inside with the nose of his gun. This wasn’t just any warehouse robbery, Jack thought. This was big! And he wanted no part. The less he knew the better. He had to think of Lucy.

  But what about Mr Harris? He couldn’t just leave him. He wanted to let him know he would get help. But that was impossible. The law would want to know what he was doing on the dock. Jack swallowed hard. What if they locked him up for pilfering? But what if the old man got hurt – or worse? That fella had a gun! Jack knew he couldn’t live with the guilt if anything happened to Mr Harris. But what about Lucy?

  From the narrow beam of the villain’s torchlight, Jack could see wooden crates stacked high. Booze. Cigarettes. There would be a glut of contraband on the streets tomorrow, he thought, and turning on a swivel he lost his balance completely, upsetting the hill of coal. The rumbling avalanche went on forever, or so it seemed. When it subsided there was a dense silence so thick, Jack didn’t dare breathe.

  ‘A rat, I told ya!’ Mr Harris’ words betrayed an uncertain tremor. ‘They don’t like being disturbed – a bit like meself.’

  ‘That was no rat, I tell you,’ Jack heard the man say, as he reached inside his pocket, lifted his arm and—

  ‘Put that away you bloody fool,’ said a man with a Celtic accent. ‘You’ll bring the law!’

  ‘Stealing from the King’s dockyard’s a hanging offence, ya know,’ Mr Harris added with some authority.

  ‘It’s arson on the King’s dock that sets you swinging, old man’ said the Celtic lilt and as Jack tried to keep every muscle, every sinew, every screaming nerve still he caught a glimpse of the man with the gun. ‘You’d better not have warned the authorities!’ The Celtic lilt took on a threatening tone, and Jack heard a dull thud.

  A groan, and then there was silence after Mr Harris hit the deck.

  Jack realised the gasp that filled the freezing air came from his own trembling lips. He must get help for Mr Harris. Dragging the cart, he hurried towards the main road.

  ‘Hey you!’ An angry voice carried on the freezing night air as the bright li
ght of a torch beam gave Jack a momentary glimpse of the gunman. A loud crack split the air and his leg seized. Jack panicked, wincing when his leg refused to budge. It grew heavy, then collapsed like a stack of cards beneath him. Jesus wept! He groaned, drawing back his lips, and his eyes rolled when painful spasms seared through the muscle at the top of his leg. Gripping his thigh, he could feel the warm wetness trickle through his fingers. He daren’t look.

  But it was difficult to avoid seeing the dark red splashes peppering the pristine snow. His heart leapt to his throat. He had to get out of here. Get help. Easing his hand from his leg, Jack’s stomach sank when he caught sight of his blood-covered palm.

  Holy Mother… he shot me! His breathing was ragged. Stay calm! Breathe. Nice and slow… Shit! Scrabbling to find his trouser pocket, Jack’s trembling fingers hindered him. Eventually managing to locate the grubby piece of ripped sheet he used as a handkerchief, he pushed it against his thigh and dragged himself towards the cart. He must get off the dock. Back to the main road.

  Ignoring the vivid red trail that followed him, Jack concentrated on moving his leaden muscles. What if they came looking for him? He stumbled. Fear catapulted the breath from his dry lips. Every nerve in his body was screaming. Exhausted, he neared the dock road, scrambling and faltering, he tripped as something warm and heavy pushed against him, urging him onto the cart. Lifting his head, Jack looked into the biggest, darkest eyes he had ever seen. Unafraid, he heaved great gulps of air, glad he’d made it this far. A man in a black balaclava was looking down at him and he was relieved. At least he would not die alone. Pain ripped through his leg as Jack slumped onto the wooden cart. The light of the moon faded as he sank into oblivion.

  6

  Evie couldn’t think straight as she finished her last shift and left Beamers. Rushing through the darkness, she was pushed along the street by a bitter wind. She pulled her collar as high as it would go against the sudden strafing of icy hailstones attacking the unprotected areas of her face.

  If she had known she would be laid off, she would not have bought the coat, because she would need her precious savings now more than ever. With little chance of another job until the weather improved, she must watch the pennies.

  ‘Evie…! Evie…! Hold up!’

  ‘Please, no!’ she whispered recognising the deep disciplined tones of Sergeant Danny Harris. Panic zinged through her body and hit her ribs like a wrecking ball. She hadn’t seen him since that awful day last summer when he’d rescued her from the gutter, and even now, the shame of it still made her cringe.

  Pretending she hadn’t heard, Evie hurried on. But in the thick snow that levelled the road and the pavement, she lost her footing on the edge of the kerb. Her arms and legs windmilled in mid-air. Too late, she realised she could not save herself and landed in an undignified heap in the middle of the snow-covered road. Danny, beside her in seconds, helped her to her feet. Evie had never wanted to disappear so deep into the snow as she did now. Lifting her to her feet like a rag doll, reminding her of the humiliating afternoon last summer.

  ‘Thinking of taking it up as a hobby?’ Evie’s humiliation clipped her words.

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Danny’s dark brows pleated. ‘Taking what up as a hobby?’ Evie wondered if he was being gallant or just plain dense and shook her head, trying to rid herself of the shameful memory.

  ‘Nothing, it doesn’t matter.’ He didn’t remember. And why should he? She would not be worth a second thought to a man as good-looking as Danny Harris, who, like a much-needed cream bun, was delicious but out of reach.

  Oh, the shame! Evie thought, ignoring the throbbing pain in her backside. If he had been anybody else, she wouldn’t have minded half so much. But Danny Harris! What a bloody mortification.

  ‘Are you all right?’ His eyes seemed full of concern. Or maybe it was pity, Evie couldn’t tell as warm clouds of opaque air escaped his confident smile and showed straight white teeth. ‘I was calling you.’

  ‘I didn’t hear you,’ Evie answered, knowing she looked like something the cat dragged in, while he looked handsome and smart in his impeccable army overcoat.

  ‘You must have your deaf ones on,’ he said, brushing snow from her ugly coat. ‘Are you injured?’

  Just my pride and dignity, she thought, but she said, ‘I’m fine, really.’ Pushing his hand away she concentrated on dusting the rest of the snow from her coat, trying to hide her obvious embarrassment. ‘Cold, isn’t it?’ she said, immediately cringing at her own stupid remark.

  ‘So cold when I opened the wardrobe my shirt was wearing my coat,’ Danny said, and they both laughed. Evie relaxed a little. He really was a gentleman. Not brash or showy like he had every right to be, but funny and friendly. She could see that now. Then he did something she couldn’t have dreamed of.

  He took her cold hands in his and cocooned the swollen digits. Breathing warm air into his huge cupped hands, she felt the delicious warmth seep into her fingers.

  ‘You’re freezing,’ he said, massaging life back into her hands and once more, shame made her insides shrivel. Her fingernails were ragged, her hands red-raw and rough through scrubbing and polishing. Trying to pull away to hide her ugly hands in her pockets, Evie realised she couldn’t. Danny was too strong. To her amazement, he stripped off his gloves, and eased Evie’s hands inside.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she claimed, ‘I’ll be home soon. And I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but these are far too big.’ He was being kind and she was castigating him. She resented being treated like a charity case. She knew people had looked down on her all her life. She was never quite as good, or clever, or pretty as other girls. She did not have the confidence to push herself.

  Even when the Susie Blackthorns of this world waded in and stole her thunder, she did not have the self-confidence to stand up and be counted. Accepting her lot in life: the underdog, the doormat. Pulling the fingertip of the glove, she felt the icy draught invade the luxurious warmth. Danny stopped her from removing the gloves by tucking the overhanging tips inside the woollen fingers.

  ‘There, nice and snug. Protected from this nasty weather…’

  ‘Cold enough to freeze the balls off a pawnshop!’ a passing docker said, with his hands dug into his pockets, he huddled deep inside a heavy donkey-jacket, an oily flat cap covering his eyes.

  ‘Language, Squire,’ Danny said, issuing a mild rebuke. ‘A lady’s present.’

  ‘Beg pardon, miss,’ said the workman, heading down the row, and Evie experienced a rare glow of warmth. Nobody had ever called her a lady before.

  ‘I thought you’d left the row for good,’ Danny said as they walked.

  ‘I have,’ she answered. ‘Do you make a habit of lending your gloves to people?’ She tried to keep her voice steady.

  ‘You’re not people, you’re a neighbour in distress.’

  Just a neighbour. Keeping a safe distance. It was something she was good at. Her solitude kept her safe from the ridicule her mother’s antics had heaped upon her. But she had to admit, Danny was one of the kindest people she knew.

  ‘Still in the army, then?’ she cringed inside. It was obvious he was still in the forces.

  ‘I’m being demobbed next Friday.’ Friendly and always chirpy, Danny was popular with everybody.

  ‘So, you’ll be home for good, then?’ Evie was glad he couldn’t hear her thudding heartbeat pumping a little faster. She could bump into him anytime, and even though she liked Danny, Evie would never dare let him know. Men as handsome and ambitious would not look twice at a skivvy like her. The thought made her determined to do something with her appearance.

  ‘I got my heavy-goods licence in the army, and saved some brass… I want to start my own business.’ His cerulean gaze tugged her heart. ‘I can’t face work on the docks, like me dad.’

  ‘Good for you.’ Evie was genuinely pleased for him. Not one to poke her nose into other people’s business, she had no need to ask questions. Danny volunteered information
like they were old friends.

  ‘I’m going to buy a wagon.’ He seemed to light up as he talked. ‘Go into the haulage business. Drive the open roads. Be as free as a bird…’ Evie’s smile widened. She felt honoured he was telling her all this.

  ‘It’s good to have ambition, it warms the blood – at least that’s what Miss Hawkins says.’

  ‘Miss Hawkins?’ Danny asked, his voice sounding genuinely interested. For the first time in her life, Evie was chatting to him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Who’d have thought Danny Harris would be interested in what she was doing with her life? She had ambitions too, she told him, feeling it suddenly very important he should know she had no intention of staying in the backstreets for the rest of her life.

  ‘I got my certificates for secretarial work and bookkeeping – so if you ever need someone to keep track of your empire, you know where I am.’ Her bright smile hid a crippling mortification. Did she just ask Danny Harris for a job? The shame of it!

  ‘Well, you need something to look forward to, that’s for sure,’ Danny responded with a nod of encouragement, ‘although I won’t be building any empires for a while.’ A lengthy pause hung in the air when neither could think of anything to say. But the silence was broken by the high-pitched honeyed tones of Susie Blackthorn’s voice.

  ‘Danny!’ Susie’s telephone voice, the one she used when talking to clients, reverberated through Evie’s skull like the crash of cymbals. Evie watched Susie approach coyly, knowing it was all phoney and exaggerated for Danny’s benefit. Susie hugged the fur collar of her beaver-lamb coat close and speared him with a little-girl-lost look from under thick, black lashes. This wasn’t the same spiteful cat Evie had known since her schooldays, when Susie had taunted her for being the daughter of the town drunk.

  The tangible reaction burned her gullet, it caused her heart to pound, it made her clench her teeth and she wished Susie Blackthorn would fall on the ice. Not to hurt herself, obviously. But to look foolish – and to wipe that pillar-box red smile off her smug, over-made-up face. Evie experienced an emotion she had never felt before. Evie recognised the feeling immediately. She had witnessed it first-hand and ignored it. So, this is what jealousy feels like.