‘Now then, my pet,’ Patrick chucked her under the chin, ‘where would you be living?’
‘Wesley Place.’ She made a sound like a grunting pig in an attempt to clear her nasal passages.
‘Have y’ever been for a ride in a carriage? No? Well, you’re going to now. Come on, let’s take ye home to your daddy.’ He took the child’s other hand which was very cool from her sojourn in the tunnel.
‘D’you know me daddy, sir?’ asked the girl, now recognising Patrick as the man who had spoken in her grandmother’s defence.
‘I do, but I doubt he’ll remember me. ’Twas a long time ago.’ A very long time, he thought. God, I feel so bloody old.
Brendan Flaherty was not at home but Patrick related the situation to the girl’s mother who bowed and scraped and thanked him for taking care of the child. ‘Sure, she should never’ve been with her Gran in the first place,’ a look of reproof for the child. ‘Brendan wouldn’t like it. She’s a bad influence, he says. Still, ’tis hard to keep a body from her grandchildren isn’t it, sir?’
‘It is.’ He nodded.
‘Would ye be after staying for a cup o’ tea, your lordship?’
He knew she could little afford it but also knew she would be grossly offended if he refused. ‘That’s most kind of ye, Mrs Flaherty. But please, the name’s Patrick.’ He followed her indoors with Belle.
The latter examined her surroundings. The room was about twelve feet square, the floor carpetless, the whole ambience one of deprivation. The walls were two-toned, the lower, darker portion being the tidemark from frequent flooding, but of course Belle didn’t realise that; the thought would have sent her into hysterics. Six little faces, pinched with the sharpness of poverty, held the visitors with wide eyes as Patrick and Belle stood awaiting their tea – there were no chairs.
After taking their refreshment and leaving a present of money, Patrick and his grand-daughter left, Belle commenting on the state of the walls.
‘The river’s just at the end o’ the street,’ Patrick told her. ‘I should think they’re flooded pretty often. Ah, these poor devils have it worse than I ever had.’
He was about to climb into the carriage but Belle stopped him. ‘Could we look round some more?’ Her arm was pointing down the street.
‘Nearer the river?’ said Patrick, conversant with her dread of water; the times he had taken her to the park and seen her break into a panic at the sight of the ducks on the lake.
‘Not too close. I just want to see what that woman down there is doing.’ She gestured at a slumped figure at the lower end of the street, reclining against a house wall, clutching a swollen abdomen. ‘She appears to be ill.’ Patrick, after a moment’s inspection, recognised the signs of labour. ‘Belle, get back in the carriage. Belle, I said don’t go down there!’ She had set off at a limp. ‘Oh, damn and blast! John, wait here but be ready to come if I shout.’ He set off after her.
Too late to shield her from the ragged skirt hauled up over flabby thighs Patrick tried to edge his grand-daughter away. ‘Belle, ’tis no sight for a young lady.’
‘But what’s wrong with her?’ Belle watched the woman’s face change from grey to red as she strained involuntarily.
‘Belle, will you do as you’re told an’ go back to the carriage! I’ll help her.’ Patrick stooped and laid a hand on the woman’s shoulder. ‘Woman, for Christ’s sake you’re showing everything ye’ve got!’
The woman panted, her face like greased parchment. ‘I’m sorry if I offend your delicate senses. Ooogh!’
‘Oh, Jazers.’ Patrick clutched his forehead. God, will somebody tell me what to do? At that moment the woman was overtaken by a huge contraction. Belle quaked as the distorted mouth emitted its agony.
Patrick caught hold of the woman in alarm. ‘Let me be!’ she yelled. Then people came running.
At the top of the slope John saw them pouring out of their houses, heard the anger in their voices and decided it would be more diplomatic to stay where he was.
‘Hey, you leave her alone!’ A man ran at Patrick. ‘Grab him, he’s kilt her!’ John, descending from the carriage, hid behind a wall where he couldn’t be summoned.
Patrick was now surrounded by a mob. The woman screamed and screamed. ‘Oh, Mercy on us!’ Rough hands grabbed the old man. ‘I was trying to help her!’ he protested. ‘She must be got to a hospital.’ But no one heeded. He was pushed back and forth, roughly handled. Belle stood in horror as they abused him. ‘Grandfather!’ Then, in her hoppity fashion she lurched to his aid, dragging at their clothes to haul them off.
Patrick had his hands up in a gesture of submission. ‘Is no one going to help the woman?’ But they continued to push him threateningly.
Then two females hustled the woman from the scene, disappearing into one of the hovels. Belle wound her fingers into the hair of one of the ruffians. He sucked in his breath and lashed out, knocking her against a wall.
Patrick had offered no violence until now but, enraged at his grand-daughter’s ill-treatment, drew back his fist to make contact with the culprit’s jaw. Down the fellow went.
The man’s comrades set on him with true vigour then. Once a renowned fighter the old man was no match for this. They swore and bashed him from man to man; women too, shrieking foul-mouthed harridans. Belle, scrambling to her feet, balanced herself then drew back her surgical boot and directed it at the nearest leg. The owner wore no boots himself and the effect of the heavy thing colliding with his ankle bone brought him howling to his knees. Wasting no time Belle aimed the boot again and again, scratching and clawing like a wildcat, desperate to stop her grandfather’s punishment, calling to him as she fought.
Patrick’s knees gave way. He clutched at the wall. ‘Run, Belle, run!’ then crumpled, unconscious, to the pavement.
‘Jesus, it’s a madwoman we’re dealing with!’ Another of the attackers cried out in anger as Belle once again put her boot to good use. But this time the strength of her swing knocked her off-balance. When she fell the men were on her. She felt their steely fingers clamp around her wrists and ankles. ‘Let go of me!’ Felt herself being tipped upside down, then transported down the street, her skirts trailing along the dusty ground. One of the women ripped off Belle’s hat and stuck it on her own head to lead the procession.
She could feel the cool air through the fine cambric of her drawers and raged to think of herself in such a humiliating position. ‘Put me down at once, you thugs!’ She tried to bite one of the hands that bound her, failed, and allowed her head to fall back to see where she was being taken. Upside down the view was hard to focus upon at first. Everything was a jumble of grey and drab gyrating shapes – but then she heard it, lapping gently at its banks, and the horrible dawning hit her like a sledgehammer. She started to wriggle desperately, using all her strength to piston her arms and legs. With the frantic movement one of the men lost his grip and dropped the leg he carried. Grabbing the opportunity she lashed out, but it did no good for he caught her again, his fingers hurting cruelly. She craned her neck. The river came closer. She could hear it taunting her. Smelt it. Oh no, please no. ‘No!’ she screamed aloud, the anger giving way to pure terror as they reached the river bank.
Without preamble the men tossed her in to the accompanying yells of the women. Belle shrieked in fear as she hit the scum-coated water with a loud wallop.
‘Let’s see yer kick yer way out o’ that!’ The men on the bank guffawed, then turned their backs and began to make their way back up the street. The laughing women stayed to shout a few more insults, then left too.
That they had selected a shallow point to throw her in mattered not. The tremendous surge of panic that their departure brought completely incapacitated Belle. Through a veil of red lace she watched their heads disappear out of view. ‘Don’t leave me!’ Her hands flailed through the thick green slime, trying to find something amongst the river’s debris – old cans and coils of wire, splintered planks of wood, a dead dog with no eyes �
� to hold onto. All anger had gone. There was only fear – sheer, mind-numbing terror as her legs lashed out beneath the foul carpet, seeking a foothold, finding none.
‘He-e-elp!’ Her eyes held the look of the slaughterhouse. ‘Oh God, sa-ave me! Grandfather! Daddy!’
Then the words wouldn’t come any more. Instead emerged animal-like utterances. Her head worked deliriously, arms shuddering, her whole being taken over by a vast hysterical paralysis as the water caressed her.
Chapter Thirty
‘She’s takin’ a swim wiv all her clothes on.’ The little girl on the bank watched agog at Belle’s pathetic flounderings. Finger in mouth she looked up at her companion, a boy of about ten or eleven, then back at the river.
‘She’s not swimmin’, dummy,’ he answered scathingly and stepping closer to the edge looked about him for some way to drag Belle out. ‘She’s drowndin’.’
It appeared there was nothing else for it but to jump in which he did, landing close to Belle in a belly flop. ‘Hold onto me, missus!’ he commanded, but Belle needed no urging and lashed the water to reach him. ‘Careful!’ He deftly moved out of range, ducked behind her, grasped her round the neck and hauled her in.
The girl had run away. There was no one else on the bank to assist. Straining he pushed and hauled the half-drowned Belle from the water, then fell down, hawking and spitting. Even on terra firma the panic refused to subside. Belle sat there shivering, teeth chattering, her mad eyes fixed on the river. The boy recovered quickly and sat up to look at her. ‘’S all right, miss, yer safe now.’
Still she trembled, her fingers locked into the flesh of her upper arms. He glanced around and seeing the discarded bonnet lying nearby dusted it off and put it on her head, back to front, and tied the ribbon as best he could. Still Belle shivered deliriously. A movement further up the street caught the boy’s eye. Patrick had regained consciousness.
‘’S that yer grandad, miss?’ No response. The boy watched Patrick stagger down the street, holding his head as though it might drop off, his other hand bearing his crushed hat. At his arrival the child rose. ‘They chucked her in, sir.’
‘The scoundrels.’ Patrick gingerly lowered himself and placed a hand on Belle’s shoulder. She flinched noisily. ‘Belle, ’tis me, Gramps.’ She directed a whimpering face to his then with a cry fell against him, sobbing. ‘There, there. You’re safe, ’tis all right now. Ssh, now.’ The clumsily-tied bonnet fell off again as he stroked her dripping hair. ‘Oh, the villains,’ he breathed. ‘Damn them. Damn them to hell! I’d see them all rot before I lifted a finger to help again.’
When the two had regained some equilibrium the old man patted the girl’s shaking back. ‘Come, darlin’, let’s have ye on your feet else ye’ll be taking a chill.’ Once risen he studied the boy, noticing that he was dripping too. ‘Have I you to thank for rescuing me grand-daughter?’
‘Weren’t nothin’, sir.’ The boy scuffed his foot on the ground.
‘Sure, that’s what that bloody John must’ve thought. Where was he when the fun started?’
Belle, still shaken but coherent now, said to the boy, ‘It was a valiant act. You were incredibly brave and I owe you my life.’
He wriggled further at such praise. ‘No, it were only shallow. You’d’ve got out on yer own probably.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Belle and shivered again. ‘Oh, Grandfather, those dreadful, wicked people. How could I ever have contemplated helping them? They’re beyond redemption. I hate them!’
It was no use, Patrick saw, arguing that they were not all as rough, for Belle had been badly scared. He spoke to the boy. ‘That was an extremely plucky thing to do an’ ye must let us show our appreciation. Where d’ye live so’s we can escort ye an’ give ye some reward for your soakin’?’ The boy looked alarmed. ‘Oh, please, there’s no need, sir. I can get ’ome on me own.’
‘Nonsense. We must explain to your mother about your state. Come on.’
‘Please, sir, you just go an’ leave me. I’ll be all right.’
‘I’ll do no such thing. That’d be fine reward for your bravery. What’s your name?’
‘Lol Kearney.’
‘An’ where d’ye live, Lol Kearney?’
The boy was forced to tell. ‘Carmelite Street – but oh, please don’t make me go!’
‘Make ye go? Why, ye make it sound like the depths o’ hell.’
‘I’m not supposed to go in before dark,’ explained Lol. ‘Me Mam’ll kill me if I do.’
‘She surely won’t be expecting ye to stand about the streets dripping wet.’
Lol said that he and his brothers and sisters were put out into the street first thing after breakfast with instructions from their mother that she didn’t want to see any of them before dark.
Patrick laughed. ‘Sure, that’s just a mother’s ploy for keeping her children from under her feet. I can assure ye, son, she’ll not skelp ye for saving someone’s life.’
‘She would, sir.’ Lol refused to budge.
‘Grandfather, can’t you see the child is petrified?’ said Belle, still quaking herself. ‘What manner of people are these? I must’ve been absolutely mad. It’s not they that need our help but the children that need protecting from their parents. Come along, Lol.’ A little of her character was returning and she grasped the cold hand.
He pulled against it. ‘No, please, miss!’
‘Don’t worry, you aren’t going home for a beating, you’re coming with us, isn’t he, Grandfather?’ And Patrick was left with little choice but to follow the dripping trail back to where John had miraculously reappeared atop the carriage. The manservant faked horror and asked if he should fetch a policeman.
‘Bit late for that now, son, isn’t it?’ Patrick grimaced and climbed on board. Thank the Lord, he thought, that Erin was out at work. She’d lose her hair if she knew what they’d been up to this morning.
At their woeful entrance Mrs Howgego threw up her scrawny arms and pulled over a chair for the master to flop into. ‘Look at your poor face! Here, I’ve just made some tea, I’ll pour you a cup.’ She was bursting with curiosity.
‘Ah, God love ye, Cook, but ’tis something stronger I’m in need of.’ He addressed a sheepish John. ‘Go fetch me a drop o’ brandy, will ye, boy.’ Then he instructed Belle to run along and get changed immediately. ‘An’ take Gawping Gertie to help ye.’ He referred to the little kitchen-maid whom Thomasin had hired while he had still been on the Continent. ‘Mrs Howgego, could ye find something to wrap around this young fella?’
‘I’ve a towel here, sir.’ She whipped the warm, fluffy towel from the drying rail and shook it at the boy. ‘Away then, get those wet things off else we’ll have a corpse on our hands.’
Showing none of the embarrassment which a young gentleman might when requested to disrobe, Lol ripped off his two sopping garments and stepped forward to be engulfed in the warm towel. Never had he felt anything so soft against his skin. Cook rubbed at him briskly, muttering, ‘Poor bairn’s nobbut skin an’ bone.’
Patrick heard. ‘Well, ye’ll no doubt be able to remedy that, Cook. It appears young Lol is going to honour our table for lunch.’ He recalled what Lol had mentioned earlier about not being allowed in until dark. ‘Maybe ye’d like to stay through supper an’ all, Lol? Then we could take ye home in the carriage.’
‘Wouldn’t he be better down here, sir?’ ventured Cook, knowing her mistress well.
Patrick could not say, as he would have liked to, ‘The boy saved my grand-daughter’s life, he deserves better’; no one in the house must know. He replied simply, ‘Ah, sure if we fancy him up a mite he’ll not disgrace your mistress’s table,’ leaving Cook to answer with a ‘Very well, sir,’ and Lol to beam his acceptance. ‘That’s a fine boy. Cook’ll put some meat on your ribs before ye go home – ah! here’s John with the elixir of life. Be a good fella an’ inject some vigour into that tea, will ye? The boy’s, too.’
‘But it’s your finest brandy, sir,’ pr
otested the manservant; then, under a withering scowl from his master, poured the neatest drop into Lol’s cup. After Patrick had sufficiently recuperated he rose creakily. ‘I’m off to see how my grand-daughter is now, but before I do I want all of yese to promise that not one word o’ this will reach Mrs Teale. She’s not to know about any wet clothes till I’ve had chance to explain to her, understand?’ He aimed his demand especially at John, but all present nodded. ‘You too, Lol.’ Patrick bent his head to the boy’s, speaking quietly. ‘I’m sorry to have to keep silent on your bravery but Miss Belle’s mother would have a fit if she found out what had happened to her. I like a peaceful life.’
With Lol’s promise Patrick left him to the rough and ready care of Mrs Howgego. The latter took the opportunity to pump John for information while the boy’s clothes were put through the mangle and set to steam by the fire. When John had told her about the fight she exclaimed, ‘Lord! The things that Miss Belle gets the master into!’ and placed a biscuit barrel on the table. ‘There y’are, Lol. Take a couple to go with your tea.’
Lol peered inquisitively into the barrel and his face lit up. ‘Cor, biscuits!’ He dug in and came out with a handful, trying his best to conceal them as he moved away.
‘Oy, Ally Sloper, I said a couple. A couple is two, not half a dozen.’ His smile dimming, he released some of his haul into the barrel. ‘There’s a good lad,’ said Cook. ‘Lunch is only fifteen minutes away. You don’t want to spoil your appetite, d’you?’
Lol, head down, crunched the remaining biscuits, examining his surroundings from the corner of each eye. He decided he did not like the manservant who was staring at him distastefully, and giving in to natural inclination he forked two fingers up against his nose.
‘Why, you cheeky little bleeder!’ John took two strides across the kitchen and caught Lol a hefty slap round the ear.
Erin’s Child Page 47