The Orphan Daughter

by Sheila Riley

  Evie felt her spirits sink to the snow-covered cobbles, as she watched Susie cross the street with the élan of a film star, and could not shake off that familiar feeling of being utterly irrelevant.

  ‘Danny,’ Susie purred, giving him a kiss on the cheek, leaving a perfect impression of two full red lips. ‘When did you get home? Did you get my letters? Your last was so short.’

  Having been elbowed out of position, Evie recognised the pervading scent of the cheap cologne Susie wore, which reminded her of the gin her mother drank. Standing in the snow, the icy wetness seeping into her shoes, she watched Danny’s reaction. She couldn’t read his expression. Was he uncomfortable with Susie’s over-friendly greeting, or did that pink tinge on his neck signify unexpected pleasure in the siren’s kiss? Two minutes ago, she and Danny were having a friendly conversation, Evie recalled. Now, he couldn’t even look at her.

  ‘Well, I’d best be off.’ Evie said with forced indifference, nodding to Danny who barely said goodbye. A few steps further, Evie caught Susie’s unguarded words quite clearly.

  ‘That one’s got delusions.’ Susie’s voice was full of scorn. ‘Well, once a skivvy always a skivvy, I say… Her, a bookkeeper. Can you believe it? She’d be like a jam puff in a beef stew. The cheek of her!’

  ‘That’s enough of that kind of talk, Susie,’ Danny said without a hint of warmth.

  Evie didn’t catch Danny’s further reaction as she lowered her head and scurried as fast as the icy ground would allow, smarting from Susie’s barbed comments. Her mother had been right, Evie thought. She did have ideas above her station. Her swirling thoughts matched the blizzard that surrounded her. Mam had told her not to get above herself. The fall could be painful. But why should she be satisfied with nothing? Living hand to mouth in a freezing garret. There had to be more to life than this.

  7

  The smell of grease, oil and bitumen mixed with the salty tang of the River Mersey, provoked memories of the past as Evie headed towards the lonely attic room, which she refused to call home. Still reeling from Susie’s catty remarks, she was careful not to slip again and bring attention to herself. One humiliation a day was enough – two was just plain greedy.

  A foghorn on the river sounded as melancholy as she felt, and bittersweet memories of days long gone trespassed on her thoughts. The tug of Jack’s little hand clutching her skirt on the quayside. Drying his tear-soaked face with kisses. Persuading him everything would be fine – even though she knew nothing of the kind. Lucy’s chubby arms hugging her neck as her exhausted little body heaved an avalanche of sobs, her red face blotchy. The pleading fear in her young dark eyes had haunted Evie ever since…

  Shh, baby… Evie could still hear the unforgivably soothing words that came out of her mouth as she sent her darling sister to a strange place with people she didn’t even know. I’ll come and fetch you both soon and bring you home. That one promise still shamed her.

  ‘You were only a child of twelve-years-old,’ Reason said.

  ‘But you lied,’ Integrity answered.

  Evie was helpless when her mother pulled baby Lucy from her arms and handed both children to a maiden aunt boarding the ship to Ireland.

  ‘There’s not much to bring you back home to, except rations and rubble,’ she said, to nobody in particular

  If she had a backbone, she should go straight around to Reckoner’s Row and demand her mother bring her children back to where they belonged. But Evie knew the milk of human kindness had soured in her mother’s breast when she took up with the spiv. It would do no good to fight it out. Although not one to give up easily, she knew Mam had no intentions of bringing Jack and Lucy home while he was in residence.

  However, when she’d saved up enough to bring them home, Evie vowed Jack and Lucy would have nothing to do with their uncaring mother. She was determined her siblings would not be subjected to the tyranny she had suffered in Reckoner’s Row.

  Jack’s fourteen now, she thought. He’ll be old enough to leave school next summer. Young Lucy won’t even remember this place.

  Jack was aware he was moving down the cobbled road of Reckoner’s Row. The pain… such evil pain screamed through his leg with every bump. He could hear the squeaking wheels of his cart and slowly opened his eyes even though he longed to sleep. The man dragging the cart was asking him questions.

  Do you see Evie these days…? Jack couldn’t answer. He hadn’t seen Evie since he and Lucy had come home. He didn’t know where she was.

  How’s little Lucy? Questions. Questions. So many bloody questions… Lucy was a worry.

  His eyes fluttered when the cart stopped outside his own home, and he caught sight of his rescuer disappearing down the narrow alleyway that locals called the jigger. Jack raised his hand that had gripped his aching leg. It was covered in blood. The street began to spin.

  Evie? Where was Evie? Stay awake, Jack…

  The icy weather kept many indoors and the underpass had become an alarming, vicious, howling wind trap, reminding her of the unceasing racket of the munitions factory. Evie kept her head down. Hurrying to her lodgings, she recalled her selfish attitude during the war, of being grateful the enemy raids targeted the bottom end of the street closest to the docks, leaving the top end alone

  Apart from the wind, the tunnel was silent. Hugging the wall, Evie concentrated on keeping her balance along the slippery ground, wondering if she had enough savings. She certainly had time to look after Jack and Lucy, now she had been laid off. Her mother wouldn’t. She never could… She’d have to keep Jack out of Darnel’s way.

  She usually felt safe in the teeming port streets but tonight was different. The raging wind, wailing through the tunnel like a discommoded banshee didn’t help matters. The darkest part of her journey was almost upon her.

  Edging along the ice-covered wall, she knew even the brave did not venture through here after dark, and when she saw a fleeting shadow slip behind an overflowing dustbin her heart spun out of control. Maybe it would have been better to take the long way around, she thought. And she would have taken the longer route if she hadn’t fallen and been helped out of the gutter by Danny Harris. Again!

  A crescendo of noise triggered by the clattering of a galvanised bin lid ripped through the tunnel and Evie stopped. Terror fizzed through her body as she tried to make sense of the din. Looking over her shoulder, her eyes met a wall of inky gloom. A few steps forward and she would be outside. But that was where the noise came from.

  Determination forced her to put one foot in front of the other. Her darting eyes searched for the source, and she jumped when a mangy-looking cat sprang into her path.

  Evie took in a shuddering lungful of chilly air, to calm her ragged breathing.

  `Just a bloody moggy!’ she gasped. Her words sounded remote as they bounced back along the domed wall. Pulling up the collar of her coat, as much to feel the security of the material as for its warmth, Evie moved forward…

  Every hair on her body stood to attention when the male voice, thick with menace, came at Evie from the place she was heading towards. She recognised it immediately.

  The sneering tone of Leo Darnel caused her stomach to tighten. She had to keep her wits about her. Darnel would take her down in an instant if she dropped her guard. As he did, that day last summer.

  Then he was in front of her. Looming over her. Dark and intimidating. Blocking her exit. But she was stronger now. Evie must keep telling herself that. The knowledge spurred her on. Drawing herself to her full five feet and four inches, she squared up to him, ignoring her quivering insides.

  ‘Hello Evie,’ he said in that smarmy voice he saved for his black-market customers, as he slithered up towards her. The smell of carbolic soap and cheap cigars hung like a threat on the frosty air. She tried to push him away. But Darnel was solid, immoveable. With rising terror, she feared he would stop at nothing to get what he wanted.

  ‘You caused me no end of trouble…’ All niceties had seeped from his voice. Dar
nel’s guttural voice, brutal in its intensity, echoed in the tunnel. Evie froze as he pushed his hand across her mouth. The leather ridge of his gloves dug into her lip. Panic fizzed behind her eyes; she could not breathe.

  ‘Ain’t you the daring one,’ he said. His voice came in low, menacing bursts. ‘Not like that mother of yours. Now there’s a woman who knows her place.’

  Evie found strength from Lord knew where and bit through the leather glove. Whipping his hand away, it boomeranged back to hit her face with such force her eyes danced. But she was not beaten yet. She wouldn’t let this thug see he rattled her, like he did her mother.

  ‘You keep away from me,’ Evie said with as much determination as she could muster, but even to her own ears the tremble in her voice was obvious.

  ‘If you show willing, you could be an asset to my business dealings…’ Darnel said, ‘I recall you were always eager to please, happy to help out…’

  ‘Not you,’ Evie cut in, her anger rising. She wanted nothing to do with his shady dealings. ‘I’ll make something of myself and see my day of the likes of you.’ She shook her head free of his grip.

  ‘You need to watch yourself,’ Darnel warned. ‘If you want to stay safe, that is.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’ Evie sounded braver than she felt. ‘Are you threatening me?’ She was sure he would get back at her any way he could and knowing Darnel as she did, anything was possible. But she would show no fear. Brazen it out, girl, a voice inside her head urged. Don’t show him you’re scared – that’s what he wants.

  ‘What the eye don’t see, and all that…’ Darnel pushed himself into her and Evie closed her eyes tight, trying to block out memories of the awful past when his eyes would roam her body, making her feel ill at ease, soiled.

  ‘Are you all right there, lassie?’ a concerned voice echoed from the mouth of the tunnel. Evie felt her legs turn to aspic. Thank you! She offered a silent, relief-fuelled prayer of gratitude.

  ‘Evening, squire,’ Darnel said moving back, allowing Evie to break free. As she did, Evie raised her knee, thrusting it with force into the spiv’s groin. Darnel doubled up.

  ‘You’ll be bleeding sorry you did that!’ he gasped, his eyes wide with shock. But Evie didn’t hang around long enough to see it. She sped towards the exit of the tunnel and gasping, she said, ‘He cornered me, Mister.’ Evie had never been more glad of an intervention. ‘I’m only defending meself.’

  ‘You appear to have the perfect deterrent, lassie.’ His voice, full of admiration, made her feel safe. ‘He had it coming, from what I could see.’ Evie could not see the features of her saviour. His head and face covered with a dark balaclava, like so many men in these arctic conditions, but she was glad he arrived when he did. Looking over her shoulder she could see Darnel still doubled up, seeming to hold up the redbrick wall trying to get his breath back. ‘Thanks, Mister,’ she said, counting her blessings, although certain this would not be the end of the matter.

  8

  Connie had just finished serving Leo Darnel when the stranger came into the tavern and clicked his fingers for service. She had never seen this one before, she thought, her back to the bar, viewing his arrival through the mirrored tiles behind the cash-till. She would have remembered. A dockside Gregory Peck. He moved across the floor to the far end of the bar like he owned the place.

  There was always one. She sighed. But, no matter. She would still call for last orders in ten minutes! She picked up a pint glass and began to polish it, ignoring the click of his fingers.

  Connie would never answer to the click of a man’s fingers. Even if this handsome one was dressed in an expensive cashmere overcoat and trilby hat. He was not a sailor, that was for sure – those clothes were not the attire of your average matelot, and definitely not those of a local docker.

  Standing at the far end of the bar, rolling a half crown through his fingers, Angus McCrea knew the barmaid was aware of him. If he’d learned anything about these places, where the close-knit community had an innate wariness of strangers, he was certain every person in the smoky bar had him in the periphery of their vision, even if they didn’t look at him.

  His every move was being scrutinised, contemplated, even muttered over. Which might seem surprising, considering the tavern was so close to the dock road. Popular with sailors from all over the world. But that was the precise reason the regular conversation receded to a low hum and he was being given the once-over.

  Clicking his fingers again, he grew curious when the barmaid ignored him, and he lifted his head to look at her. A tailored black dress skimmed her voluptuous curves, and her fiery Titian curls were swept up very becomingly into that familiar Betty Grable style that he had seen painted on the cockpit of American P-51 Mustang Bombers.

  ‘Excuse me, is anybody serving here?’ his deep Scottish inflection carried along the dark mahogany bar, and he watched the barmaid place the glass she had been polishing on the shelf. She answered with a silent, direct gaze.

  ‘Did you not hear me the first time?’ Angus asked when she approached him.

  ‘I heard a finger click.’ Connie said, looking at his hands while stretching to retrieve another glass. ‘And just so you know, my love, if you want me to serve you, then you should never do that – or you’ll go thirsty.’

  Angus nodded, chastised. Her captivating smile could tame even the most savage beast, he thought.

  ‘I’m sorry. Terrible habit,’ Angus answered. It had been a long time since anybody dared tell him what to do.

  ‘That’s better, Mr…?’ Connie dazzled him with her ruby red smile, her teeth film-star white.

  ‘McCrae,’ he said, ‘but you can call me Angus, Mrs…?’

  ‘Miss,’ Connie said, wiggling the naked third finger of her left hand, ‘but you can call me Connie – everybody around here does.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Connie. May I have a pint of your best bitter, please?’ He was glad he’d called in now.

  ‘Charmed, I’m sure.’ Connie, pulling the pump, poured his pint and looked up as the door of the bar opened. The cold wind blew in two Irish men singing loud rebel songs.

  ‘Well, if it isn’t Leo Darnel,’ one said, his arms wide open and so drunk he was zig-zagging the floor to the bar.

  ‘Can I help you, pal?’ Darnel, who did not look as if he wanted company, put down his pint.

  ‘I’m not your pal.’ The Irishman’s words were low, deliberate and laced with menace; a spark of recognition in Darnel’s eyes dimmed to a hard, unwavering stare.

  ‘Are you looking for something?’ Darnel asked, undaunted. ‘A thick lip, maybe?’

  A rush of mirthless laughter came from the lips of the other Irishman, and the din of conversation died, filling the bar with an uneasy silence.

  ‘Play nice, boys,’ Connie warned. She knew Darnel was not a man to be crossed. Some had tried – but never twice. ‘We don’t need a floor show, thank you very much.’

  She spoke as she delivered the pint to Angus. In one clean movement she took his money and cleared the bar of any weaponry, beer bottles and empty glasses before she had even reached the till.

  ‘No trouble here, Missus.’ The Irishman’s lined, weather-beaten face stretched into a slow smile. ‘No trouble at all.’

  ‘Then piss off!’ Darnel forced the words past the fat cigar clenched between his nicotine stained teeth. The Irishman, in the process of walking away, turned back to have the last word.

  ‘Keep your eyes and your ears open, Mister Darnel…’ he said, tapping the side of his nose.

  ‘What time does the singer come on?’ Angus asked dryly, giving Connie a practised grin. He didn’t expect an answer as he watched the exchange between the rivals with interest. Maybe he should stick around.

  ‘You wouldn’t believe this place has been quiet, because of the bad weather and blackouts, and except for the habitual stragglers sitting around the fire, business has been slack.’ Her smile, as bright as any seasoned performer, hid her relief as t
he Irishmen were now leaving the tavern. ‘These lot are here raising a glass for an old docker who fell down a hatch and broke his neck.’

  Ringing the bell for last orders, Connie was determined not to put more coal on the dying fire as she had done the night before. The minute she re-fuelled the grate the buggers went home. What a bloody waste that was!

  ‘Last night they sat with a measly bottle of stout, making it last all night to save their own coal – but what can you do?’ she asked. To keep warm, she had washed every glass, aunt-sallied the floor, windolene’d the mirrors behind the bar until they sparkled, there was nothing left to do, except read the book she borrowed from the library. ‘But one good thing came of it,’ she told Angus. ‘When they buggered off home, I caught the late murder mystery on the wireless.’

  Angus smiled at her positive attitude and in the short time since he discovered Connie Sharp shared the same planet he did, he knew, if ever he was looking for a woman to occupy his lonely hours, she would be the one.

  ‘Can I get you anything else, love?’ Connie noted his shock of dark hair flecked with silver around the temples. Not that she was looking, mind. It was just an observation.

  ‘A room?’ He smiled, putting his trilby hat on the polished bar.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ The warmth of his twinkling eyes softened his chiselled features, but Connie was not in the mood to be soft-soaped tonight. ‘You’d better not be getting fresh with me.’ She wanted an early night, her feet were aching, and she had done the afternoon shift on her own. The bar had been busy this afternoon, because the dockers had a strike meeting for better pay and fewer hours before raising a toast to their lost mate. The usual.