‘Aye, the eejit! I’m hoping it’s not as bad as it looks.’ Maureen sounded angry. Her face was pale and tense, her eyes dark with worry. ‘I’m starting to believe we’ve a jinx on us. Now, out of my way.’ She lifted the enamel bowl out of the sink and carried it over to the sofa.
Lucy and Timmy followed her over to the sofa but were told to stay back. Lucy felt rebellious, wanting to help, thinking that if she’d been a few inches taller they wouldn’t treat her like a child. She noticed one of the men had a bloodstained rag fastened about his head and another held his arm as if it hurt.
The water in the bowl soon turned red. ‘Ugh! It makes me feel sick,’ said Timmy, and ran outside. Lucy supposed she should keep an eye on him and went to stand in the doorway. For a moment she watched him stalk a hen, smiling when he swooped upon it. It squawked and fluttered away and he fell on to his knees. A man spoke in the room behind her, asking Dermot whether he had any whiskey.
‘I was saving it for when the doctor comes. He’ll be needing to dig the bullet out.’
‘Mick nearly did for us all,’ rasped another voice. ‘It was pointless starting shooting once Mayor McSwinney was arrested.’
‘Mick can’t be trusted to show sense. That’s what being in the British Army’s done for him. He doesn’t know how to be invisible in a crowd.’
‘Shut up!’ said Maureen fiercely. ‘Have a heart. If you don’t have anything useful to say, get out!’
‘We had to leave our bikes behind when we stole the car,’ grumbled the first voice.
‘More fools you then,’ she muttered. ‘I don’t know what you’re all thinking of, leading my brother into trouble. He came here to get away from it and to have some peace and quiet.’
There was a moment of deathly silence. Then one of the men said, ‘Now who’s the fool? I’ll be going. Mother will be wondering where I am.’
Lucy moved away from the doorway to lean against the outside wall of the house. The rough whitewash was scratchy beneath her back but she did not heed it, watching the men disappear round the back of the outbuilding, wondering who Mayor McSwinney was and why he’d been arrested and whether Uncle Mick’s being shot was his own fault. What if he died? She told her brother not to wander off and went inside the house.
Maureen appeared to have staunched the bleeding but her uncle’s face was twitching, eyes tightly shut and teeth clenched. ‘Couldn’t you give him some whiskey?’ she said.
Dermot shook his head. ‘He’ll be needing it later when the doctor comes. Tea! We’ll have some tea.’
It was a couple of hours before the automobile reappeared with the doctor and all that time Mick had been moaning and groaning. ‘Where’s that bloody whiskey, Dermot?’ he rasped now.
A bottle was produced and the wounded man gulped down a tumbler before gasping and falling back against the cushion.
Dermot noticed Lucy watching and gave a faint smile. ‘Outside, girl. This isn’t going to be a pretty sight for a child.’
‘I’m not a child,’ she said impatiently. ‘Mam, can I help?’
‘You can help by saying a few prayers,’ said Maureen tersely. ‘My God, you can never trust a man to keep his word or stay out of trouble.’
‘I’m not very good at praying,’ muttered Lucy. She’d have much preferred to play at nurses and staunch the blood.
‘Shame on you,’ said Dermot sternly. ‘Go and try hard.’
Lucy went outside and asked God to take away Mick’s pain. After that she said a few Hail Marys. There was a gasp, a groan, a scream and after that silence. Was he dead? she wondered and went back inside.
Her uncle’s eyes were shut but she noticed his chest was rising and falling. The doctor was washing his hands. Maureen was sitting at Mick’s feet, a glass in her hand, her face paler than ever. Dermot was drinking out of the whiskey bottle. ‘Will we be staying here longer, Mam? He’ll need nursing, won’t he?’ said Lucy.
‘Ha! Your mam doesn’t have to do that. The old woman will see to him,’ said Dermot. ‘She’s best off home – and you two as well. When Mick can stand on his feet, we’ll see you get him back.’
Lucy thought it didn’t sound like she and her mother and Timmy would get to visit her father’s grave this visit. She was disappointed but glad at least that Dermot seemed to think her uncle wasn’t going to die.
She and Timmy spent the night with her mother and the old woman in a double bed. It was a bit of a squash and Lucy didn’t sleep a wink. The next morning Maureen told Lucy she and Timmy were to go to mass with the old woman and say a few more prayers for Mick. She would stay and help him write a letter to Callum.
They walked miles to the nearest village of Innashannon and Lucy ended up with painful blisters. ‘I suppose there’s no chance of us visiting Dad’s grave today?’ she asked when they arrived back at the farmhouse.
‘There’s no time for that.’ Maureen’s face was strained and Lucy knew this was not the time to argue with her.
It had all been a bit of a disappointment really, she thought. No shops to look at and definitely no leprechauns. The same for the banshees, though, which was a relief.
Going home took longer than getting there because there was no liner leaving for Liverpool that day so they were taken to Cork and put on a train for Dublin, there to catch the regular ferry which sailed from Dun Laoghaire to Liverpool. By the time they disembarked at Liverpool on Monday morning they were fit to drop.
But Maureen had work to go to – Aunt Mac had filled in for her on Saturday. She only had time to pick up her brushes, polish and cloths. She was about to go when Lucy noticed there was no sign of her cart and asked her mother to tell Owen to bring it back. ‘Of course he’ll bring it back!’ She almost snapped Lucy’s head off. ‘You just take Timmy to school. Explain why he’s late. Then light the fire and see to the washing.’ She hurried out.
Lucy knew her mother was tired and worried about Mick. She was herself but there was nothing they could do for him right now. That would have to wait until he was fit enough to come home. And when he did, she thought, that would be when Maureen would give him a piece of her mind. She just hoped her mother wouldn’t forget, in worrying about Mick, to ask Owen Davies for her cart.
* * *
‘Your cart?’ Maureen’s voice was vague.
‘My cart, Mam,’ said Lucy impatiently. ‘I can’t collect offcuts and deliver without it. Remember what I had to do last time I lost it?’
Her mother blinked at her and forced a smile. ‘Owen said you weren’t to worry. He’d do your round.’
‘And you agreed to that?’ Lucy was dismayed. ‘What are you thinking of, Mam?’
‘He said it was hard work for a little girl like you, and it’s true.’
Lucy couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘I’ve managed fine since Gran died,’ she said fiercely. ‘We need the money! I knew I couldn’t trust him. Who does he think he is? I’ll speak to Uncle Barney about him.’
‘You can’t be bothering Mr Jones. He’s having a little holiday. Has gone to Wales.’
Damn! thought Lucy.
‘You know what I’ve been thinking, Luce. I could do with finding myself a husband,’ said Maureen in a vague voice.
Lucy wasn’t interested. ‘Did he say where my cart was, Mam?’
‘Griffiths’ yard.’
Right! Lucy didn’t waste any time but shot out of the house and sprinted in the direction of Great Homer Street.
As she entered the timber yard she could hear the whine of a mechanical saw coming from one of the buildings. Now where could Owen have put that cart? She gazed about her at the piled up planks of timber and walked round for a while. A man glanced her way and asked what she was looking for.
‘A cart.’
‘We don’t make carts here, luv. But if you ask at the office Miss Jones might be able to help you out with the name of a business. She’s in the office.’
‘Not that kind of cart,’ said Lucy impatiently. ‘It’s—’ She brok
e off, deciding maybe this Miss Jones was the right person to speak to.
She knocked at the door that said ENQUIRIES and was told to enter. To her surprise and irritation Rob’s aunt wasn’t there. The only person in the room was a girl sitting at a typewriter, hitting the keys one finger at a time. ‘Hello!’ said Lucy loudly.
‘Damn!’ The girl tore the paper out of the typewriter and scowled at her. ‘What d’you want?’
‘I was looking for a Miss Jones.’
‘I am Miss Jones.’ She got up and came round the desk and looked Lucy up and down before leaning against the desk and folding her arms. ‘Haven’t I see you before? We don’t get many girls coming in here.’
It was then that Lucy recognised her and wished she could be so confident, but perhaps she could if she dressed as smartly. Miss Jones was wearing a black pinstripe skirt, the palest of pink blouses. Her hair was done up on top of her head and kept in place by two large decorative combs. ‘Yes!’ Lucy spat out, deeply envious of the other’s appearance to the core of her being. ‘I’ve come for my cart.’
Unexpectedly the girl chuckled. ‘The orange box on wheels? You’re welcome to it, lovey. But I thought Owen had taken charge of it now?’
‘That’s what he thinks,’ said Lucy, tossing back her hair. ‘My gran built up that round and I’m not going to give it over to him.’
‘Good for you! There mightn’t be much of you but Napoleon was only a small bloke and look what he did.’
Lucy wasn’t interested in Napoleon. She wanted to get her cart and be out of this place before Owen arrived. She reckoned he must dash up here in his break between the afternoon and evening performances. ‘If you’ll tell me where it is…’
‘I’ll show you.’ Miss Jones led the way out of the office and round the side towards the stables.
‘Is Miss Griffiths your aunt?’ asked Lucy as a thought struck her.
‘That’s right. I’m Dilys. You’ve met my brother Rob.’ She glanced at Lucy and grinned. ‘His bark’s as bad as his bite, you know, but he doesn’t bite people often.’
Lucy felt the colour rise in her cheeks. ‘He told you I bit him?’
Dilys nodded, still smiling as she opened a door and they went inside. There was a strong smell of horses and hay but the stable was empty. The cart stood just round the corner inside and Dilys pulled it out. ‘Here you are. I’ll get your sack filled up for you.’
Lucy thanked and followed her. She was soon on her way, taking her time as she went down Havelock Street. It was after she’d crossed Netherfield Road that she ran into Owen. He took in the situation immediately and before she could prevent him he’d gripped the cart handle and wrenched it from her. ‘I said I’d do it!’
‘I don’t want you doing it! Give me it back, Owen Davies, or you’ll regret it!’ Lucy put both hands on the handle and tugged.
He laughed. ‘Nice try, little girl, but you’re no match for me.’
That ‘little girl’ infuriated her and made her all the more determined not to let him get away with it. She gritted her teeth as he prised the fingers of her left hand from the handle and pushed her away. ‘Choppin’ wood’s a man’s job, not a girl’s!’ he taunted. ‘Now be a good kid and get lost.’
But she wasn’t going to give up. ‘You’re not a man – you’re a shirt button!’ She shoved him with her bottom and got another grip on the handle. ‘If you don’t give it to me it’ll be the worse for you. I’ll go for the police.’
‘You do that. Who d’you think they’d believe – me or a little slummy?’ mocked Owen, forcing back the fingers of her left hand. Lucy gasped but resisted all his efforts to shift her right hand. Then, bringing down her head, she bit him. He yelped and let her go and just the same as she’d done once before she ran, thinking how mistaken Uncle Mick had been in believing this youth fancied her.
Owen gave chase and would have caught her if Lucy had not noticed they were being watched. She screamed. ‘Help! Help! This boy’s after me and won’t leave me alone!’
‘What’s he done to yer, girl?’ called one of the onlookers.
From the depths of her memory Lucy trawled up an answer that would get them firmly on her side. ‘He put his hand up my skirt!’
‘Oh!’ gasped a woman. ‘The dirty little swine!’ She advanced on Owen and hit him with her shopping bag. The force of the blow knocked him sideways. Lucy could not help it – she laughed. ‘And that!’ said her saviour, and hit him again as he rose to his feet. He staggered back and Lucy saw the murderous expression on his face. The laughter died on her lips and she scarpered.
‘What’s up with you?’ asked her mother when Lucy collapsed on the sofa.
‘You don’t want to know, Mam, but I’m back in business. I got my cart and offcuts so I can get chopping.’ Maureen gazed down at her and Lucy noticed the strain in her face. ‘You OK?’
Maureen picked up the axe and ran a finger over its sharp edge. ‘I’m sick of men telling me what to do!’
Lucy dismissed Owen from her thoughts and sat up. With part of her mind she noticed water dripping from the washing on the drying rack on to her mother’s hair. ‘What’s happened?’
With a smouldering expression on her face, Maureen took a piece of wood from the sack and stood it on its end on the floor. She brought the axe down, splitting the wood straight down the middle. ‘That Callum! He had the nerve to tell Mr Jones I was spoken for while I was away.’
Lucy barely caught the words because she was staring at her mother in admiration. ‘Golly! That was a clean cut!’
‘It’s more than “Golly”, girl. I’m really annoyed!’ She brought down the axe again and chopped one of the halves clean in two. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to say to Mr Jones when he comes home from holiday. He’ll take some convincing it was only Callum’s wishful thinking. I don’t want to marry a carter! I want to go up in the world.’
Lucy did not know what to say to that. Her mother was an attractive woman but the girl found it hard to accept that someone rich like Barney would want to marry her. He seemed to admire Maureen greatly but surely that wasn’t enough of a reason for him to take her from the slums. She was Catholic, too, and surely he’d consider the difference in religion seriously? ‘What are you going to do?’ she murmured.
Maureen brought the axe down again. ‘Never you mind! You get cutting bread. I’ve some brawn in and it’ll be tasty melted on toast.’
Realising she wasn’t going to get any more out of her mother, Lucy did as she was told before going and calling Timmy in for his tea. It was just at that moment that Owen limped into the court. His shirt was hanging out and he looked the worse for wear. She dragged Timmy inside and slammed the door shut swiftly. But Owen must have seen her because he lifted the letter box and shouted through it: ‘When I’ve finished with you, Lucy Linden, no bloke’ll want to marry you.’
‘I don’t want to get married!’ she shouted back. With the door between them she gained Dutch courage. ‘I’ll earn my own money. Most lads are good for nothing anyway!’
‘What’s all this shouting?’
Lucy spun round. For a moment she debated whether to tell her mother of Owen’s threats, but she’d want to know the reason why he’d made them and Lucy was embarrassed to say that she’d accused him of having had his hand up her skirt. ‘Nothing,’ she said, attempting to look innocent. ‘Is the toast OK?’
‘It’s fine. Hurry up and get bundling the wood. I thought we’d go to the pictures to cheer ourselves up.’
While admiring the daring-do of John Gilbert, and giggling over the antics of Buster Keaton, who could sit in an automobile and have all the wheels fall off without moving a muscle of his face, Lucy was able to forget Owen’s threats. Later, though, as she lay in bed, she felt uneasy, guessing the reckoning would come. If only her father were alive or Mick were here Owen would not have dared threaten her, and neither would their little family have needed her firewood money so desperately.
* * *
&nb
sp; The following morning Lucy set off on her round. She came to the first house and, lifting the knocker, rat-a-tat- tatted on the door. It was opened by a man in his shirt sleeves and she could hear a baby crying. He looked surprised to see her. ‘Hello, luv. I thought you were in Ireland?’
‘I got back yesterday.’ Lucy smiled and held out a bundle of firewood.
He shook his head regretfully. ‘Sorry, luv. We’ve already bought some from the lad. He said you were still away.’
Lucy’s smile faded. She felt sick. ‘He lied to you! He-He’s after my round!’
The man looked sympathetic. ‘Sorry, luv. It’s a dirty trick but he got here first. I’ll chase him tomorrow if he gets here before you.’
Dismayed and angry, Lucy walked away to try her next customer and met with the same tale. It was a similar story with the next three. She didn’t bother after that, realising Owen had a head start on her even at this early hour. She felt cold inside and at a loss what to do. She might tell her mother about it, but would Maureen do anything in the strange mood she was in? Lucy realised it was up to her. As far as she knew Owen didn’t have a cart. It would take him longer to get round. She decided to skip the street she was on and run to the last lot of houses on her round and hopefully beat him to it.
Lucy did that and managed to sell to all her customers in that street and warn them about Owen before coming face to face with him on Great Homer Street. The thoroughfare was already busy with women queuing up outside their favourite bakeries. Tobacconists and newsagents were competing for the business of people going to work. So she felt it was reasonably safe to give vent to her anger. ‘You sneak, Owen!’ she said, shoving the cart against his legs.
‘Ouch! I’ll get you for that!’ He lunged at her but Lucy darted back.
‘You just try it and I’ll scream blue murder again! You’ve robbed me!’
‘No, I haven’t.’ The light of battle was in his eyes. ‘I’ve worked for what I’ve got.’ Again he tried to get to her but she dodged aside, pulling her cart instead of pushing it, and managed to keep it between them. But Owen was not about to give up and dumped his sack in the cart. ‘It’s the early bird that catches the worm and my mam needs the money just as much as yours.’
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