The Orphan Daughter Read online

  ‘Why would Rene give house-room to that spiv? Leave her be, you bully!’ a neighbour yelled from her front door, obviously alerted by the disorder outside the tavern. ‘You wouldn’t hit her if she had her father behind her!’ The women of Reckoner’s Row were gathered at the bottom of the bridge near the tavern watching the commotion with interest, although keeping a respectable distance.

  ‘That mother of hers is no better than she oughta be, neither!’ Ada Harris called, scurrying up the street in carpet slippers so as not to miss anything. There’s no show without punch, Connie thought, watching the tavern cleaner join the gossiping swarm. The women, clannish through shared hardship and misfortune, were less inclined than the menfolk to keep their opinions to themselves. But Connie knew they’d give their old man a blow by blow account over Sunday dinner, whether his nibs liked it or not.

  ‘They’re going at it hammer and tongs…’ Ten-year-old Bobby Harris had stopped collecting the glasses, a little job he did on Saturday and Sunday afternoon to help Connie and for pocket money. He was on tiptoes looking out of the window, craning his neck to get a better view. He winced when he saw Evie being dragged out into the street by her long, sand-coloured hair.

  ‘Evie’s giving as good as she gets, but she’s no match for the spiv.’ Everybody in Reckoner’s Row called Leo Darnel ‘the spiv’ – although never to his face.

  ‘I bet a pound to a pinch of horseshit, Rene comes into work with another shiner,’ Connie said, peering over Bobby’s head to get a better view. Her concern was growing as she added, ‘it’s not like Evie to get into an argument in the street, and certainly not with the spiv.’ Pushing up the net curtain to get a better view, she ignored Bobby dragging a wooden crate. ‘Rene jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire when she took up with that crook! You’d think she would have more sense.’

  Connie never imagined the barmaid would take up with the spiv after suffering that bloody husband of hers. Frank Kilgaren – an outside angel if ever there was one – was a tyrant in his own home. He’d done Rene a huge favour when he got himself blown up in the Atlantic. But Leo Darnel was notorious for dealing in the black market and other nefarious activities. His arrogance sickened Connie, who knew he had Rene just where he wanted her, hiding his contraband in Rene’s house while his own house in Formby near the posh seaside resort of Southport was squeaky clean. He wouldn’t shit on his own doorstep, Connie thought, skewering him with an unflinching glare, but he didn’t mind sullying Rene’s. The man was a thug who could silence the bar just by walking into it.

  ‘Ma said he’s Rene’s lodger,’ the boy said, and Connie’s dark eyes rolled heavenwards.

  ‘Some might call him that, Bobby.’ Connie’s voice betrayed the revulsion she felt. Since Frank’s ship went down, Rene was like a caged bird set free.

  ‘It’s Evie I feel sorry for,’ Connie said. ‘That girl hasn’t had it easy. Maybe it’s just as well the younger two are still in Ireland.’ Although not one to judge, thirty-year-old Connie had standards. Rene’s riotous revelry was the talk of the street. After Frank copped it, visiting servicemen were often late-night visitors, especially during the war.

  Bobby clambered aboard the upturned crate and rested his chin on the wooden sill to get a better view of the crowd outside. The women of Reckoner’s Row, like cooing pigeons, huddled near the wooden railings lining the Leeds to Liverpool canal lambasting the sweaty man.

  ‘He’s lost the buttons off his shirt and his vest is splattered with blood!’ Bobby exclaimed, wriggling on the crate, certain he had a splinter in his knee.

  ‘But whose blood is it?’ Connie wondered out loud. She dug her nails into the palm of her hands, wishing she were a man who could knock seven bells out of the spiv when he lunged at the pretty girl in a torn dress. Connie noticed Evie was too quick for him and had the good sense to step out of his way.

  Moving from the window, Connie slowed her pace at the door and watched as Rene hurled herself down the narrow path of the redbrick terraced house. Her bare feet slapping the rust-coloured tiles as she lunged into the tangle of arms. Dragging Darnel’s hands from her daughter’s waist-length hair, Rene stumbled into an untidy heap when Darnel pushed her away and Connie tensed.

  Gasping for breath, Rene scrambled to her feet, pushing back the bottle-blonde hair sticking to her damp face and dragged her daughter out of harm’s reach.

  ‘That poor girl…’ Connie said, pressing her lips into a stiff straight line, aware that on a sweltering day like today every door in the single row of jerry-built terraced houses would be open. The boy should not be witness to such a carry-on, she thought. He should be home eating his dinner. Bobby was the youngest of Ada Harris’ three kids – an accident, Ada called him even within his earshot – and they lived at the other end of Reckoner’s Row next to the small bridge and the debris.

  ‘Bobby, did I just hear your mam calling you?’ Sometimes, this wasn’t the place for a ten-year-old boy to spend his time. He should be down on the debris with the rest of the kids playing football or cricket. The debris was the space where the two houses adjoining his own home had been blown up during the war. Luckily, Bobby had been evacuated and his family were in the air-raid shelter. His older brother Danny fighting on the beaches at Dunkirk had also had a lucky escape while Ada’s only daughter, Grace, was a stewardess on an ocean-going liner. All in all, Ada Harris and her family led a charmed life, but the same could not be said for Evie Kilgaren.

  ‘I don’t want to go home, I’d rather stay here, with you,’ Bobby said, his cheerful face turning a shade of pink under the usual muck that accumulated during his normal day, and Connie ruffled his unruly mop of dark hair.

  ‘If I know anything, Ada will have your guts for violin strings if you’re late for your Sunday dinner,’ she warned.

  ‘Mam’s got our Danny to talk to – he’s home on leave so she’s not interested in what I get up to.’ Bobby was still looking out of the window, and his candid observation pulled on Connie’s heartstrings. She sighed. The boy might be right, Ada was besotted with her oldest son and told anybody who would listen how proud she was of his bravery during the war.

  ‘Who needs a war when you’ve got this on your own doorstep,’ Bobby said as if privy to her thoughts, his eyes glistening with excitement. ‘I love a good scrap, don’t you, Connie?’

  ‘No, Bobby, I do not.’ Her voice was sharper than intended. ‘Especially when it involves poor Evie. She doesn’t deserve to be treated that way, no kid does.’ Sickened by events outside, the oppressive heat was making her unusually irritable and Bobby turned, his face a crumpled frown.

  ‘Didn’t you want kids of your own, then?’ he asked with child-like innocence.

  ‘Don’t you tire of asking questions?’ Connie asked, returning to her duties and whipping up the beer-stained bar towels. She lashed them into the sink with such force the water splashed over the bar. Of course she wanted children of her own. But that joy was not to be. So, there was no use fretting about it.

  ‘Why don’t you go and get your dinner and stop mithering me?’ The pub had been busy since she opened up until closing time, and she was looking forward to putting her aching feet up for a few hours before the night shift. Although, she doubted she would get much peace.

  Mim, her mother, would want every tiny detail of the fracas, even though she had the advantage of a front-row view from behind the lace curtains in their living room upstairs.

  After a few moments, Connie realised she had unsettled Bobby with her hasty retort, and she felt a pang of remorse for being so short with him. He wasn’t a bad kid, he just got up to mischief when left to his own devices. But what ten-year-old didn’t?

  ‘I’m sure you must be starving,’ she said, her voice softening, ‘a growing lad like you?’ She relaxed when his sudden cheeky grin let her know they were pals again. Having given up hope of having children of her own, she often treated Bobby like the son she never had – and he took full advantage of her kind
heart.

  ‘D’you know everyone round ‘ere, Connie?’ Bobby asked.

  ‘Aye, Bobby, I’m like the fixtures and fittings,’ she answered, drying another glass and putting it on the shelf above the bar.

  ‘Didn’t you want to get married?’ His forthright manner never ceased to raise an eyebrow. ‘I mean, you’re not that old – I’m sure someone would have you!’

  ‘I’m fine the way I am, thank you.’ Connie busied herself putting glasses behind the bar, so he couldn’t see the smile turning up the corners of her generous lips. A former nurse, she had served in France and Italy during the war and Bobby was always asking questions about her time there.

  She thrilled Bobby with stories about the heroic deeds of the brave servicemen, although remaining deeply private about her own war – especially to Mim. Her mother didn’t need to know about the secrets that had cost her the nursing career she loved.

  Being the type of woman who didn’t think too deeply about things she had no control over, Mim wouldn’t understand why she couldn’t face returning to nursing after Italy. So, when Mim said she’d had enough working days behind this bar, Connie took over the reins.

  Wiping a damp sheen from her brow, Connie pushed the thoughts of those terrible Italian days from her mind, realising too much time had been ruined by things she had no power to change.

  Sighing, she weaved an escaped russet tendril back into the victory roll that haloed her head and as Bobby approached the bar with more empty glasses, she forced a practised smile.

  ‘You’ve got nice eyes, Connie,’ he said. ‘They change colour when you smile.’ Tilting his head to one side his expression was quizzical. ‘Are they green or blue?’

  ‘They’re sky-blue pink,’ Connie answered with skilful nonchalance, repeating the phrase her mother often used when she was a child. ‘Sometimes they even turn red when I get angry.’ She made a playful lunge towards him, flicking a damp tea towel, laughing when Bobby curled his skinny body to protect himself, his delight echoing through the empty bar.

  ‘I like it when you’re in a happy mood,’ he said unfurling, and taking advantage of her good humour to straighten a box of Smith’s crisps under the counter with keen-eyed precision.

  ‘You look… well, you know… younger,’ he said, stepping back to make sure the half-filled box was just the way it should be.

  ‘I doubt that,’ Connie raised a cynical eyebrow. She suspected Bobby’s angelic face and easy compliments would make him a heartbreaker like his older brother Danny one day.

  ‘You do it a lot, you know?’ he said, straightening the packets inside the box.

  ‘Do what a lot?’ Connie stopped what she was doing and eyed him with light-hearted suspicion. She was being soft-soaped and surmised Bobby wanted a packet of crisps. She nodded to the box and he eagerly helped himself.

  ‘Smile, you smile all the time…’ he said, taking his snack and resuming his place by the window, looking down the row, waiting for something else to happen. ‘Everybody’s friend, that’s you, Connie’.

  ‘Aye, if you say so, Bobby.’ Connie sighed, watching him open the twist of navy- blue waxed paper from inside the bag of crisps and dipping his finger into the salt. He turned his face towards her, and she laughed when his right eye bunched and his mouth stretched into a shuddering grimace.

  ‘That’ll teach you not to eat salt.’ Connie said, rinsing soapy water from her hands. Bobby was quiet for a while, crunching away, his mind on other things. Then a couple of moments later he surprised and delighted Connie when he suddenly said, ‘I wish you were my mam, Connie, you’d make a great mam,’ he said. ‘My mam won’t let me do nothing.’

  ‘Your mam won’t let you do anything,’ Connie corrected him, folding bar towels.

  ‘That’s what I said,’ he answered, engrossed in sprinkling more salt onto his crisps while Connie swallowed the tight knot in her throat. Bobby didn’t know he had just paid her the biggest compliment. But it was no use wondering, longing to know what it would be like to have a child of her own. That time had passed.

  ‘You don’t half say some daft things, Bobby.’ Connie said after taking a calming deep breath, but she realised he wasn’t listening anymore.

  ‘Connie, come and see!’ Bobby’s tone was urgent, their previous conversation forgotten. ‘They’re at it again… The spiv’s just clocked her one.’ The crate he perched on wobbled, his impotent anger clear as day. ‘I wish I was big, like our Danny – I’d give him what for!’

  Connie rushed from behind the bar and this time she headed straight to the open door to see the throng of irate neighbours gathered like clucking hens. Her heart pounding and her mouth dry, Connie hoped one of the gambling men would intervene, but none of them did. They wouldn’t take a chance of getting on the wrong side of Leo Darnel. A mortal foe among those who crossed him, the spiv was holding Rene at arm’s length while grabbing hold of Evie.

  ‘You show her who’s boss, Leo,’ one of his followers called, stooping low in the mouth of the jigger, playing an illicit game of pitch and toss. ‘Put ’er in ’er place!’

  ‘You want to mind your own business,’ Connie told the gambler. ‘I’ve heard you’re not slow in running from your wife’s rolling pin.’ The other gamblers and a few women roared with laughter while Connie, shrewd as a hunting cat, eyed Darnel’s every move. Her heart went out to the poor girl who had become a source of entertainment for the local kids who ceased their afternoon games to gawp at the carry-on from number two. Connie itched to set Evie free.

  ‘I think she’s had enough.’ Connie’s voice was loud, and firm enough for all to hear. The way Evie was being treated sickened her. Darnel let go of both women and rolled up his sleeves, enjoying the sport as Connie met his contemptuous gaze without fear.

  ‘I said, enough!’ There was a hint of menace in her voice.

  ‘This is a private matter, Connie.’ Rene sounded apologetic, standing with arms outstretched between her daughter and her fancy man. Connie knew Rene was a proud woman whose dignity was tested only when there was a man around. But for all that, Connie liked her and counted her as a friend and confidant.

  ‘It doesn’t look private, Rene.’ Connie edged forward. ‘You could sell tickets.’

  ‘Mind your own,’ Darnel sneered, ignoring the calls from the increasing throng of concerned women.

  ‘I’ll show you whose business it is, shall I?’ Connie answered, turning her attention back to Rene who looked quite dishevelled after her tussle with Darnel. ‘You ought to be ashamed, brawling in the street, making a show of yourself.’ Connie kept a close eye on Darnel’s balled fists, watching him bob and weave like a boxer limbering up for the big fight after Evie wrenched her arm from his grip.

  Gobshite! Having lived in the dockland all her life and owing Darnel nothing, Connie had no fear of the black-marketeer. ‘You need to put those fists in your pocket, where they’ll do no harm.’ Connie’s voice was clear in the sultry summer heat. ‘If you lay one more finger on that poor girl, I’ll have the Jacks on you.’ She knew Leo Darnel had a healthy regard for staying under the radar of the local constabulary. ‘You might terrify the poor mare, but you don’t scare me!’

  ‘You nosey ould bag!’ Darnel spat, causing globules of white-foam saliva to spurt from his mean lips and cling to his shoestring moustache. Connie shuddered in disgust and walked towards Evie. She would be safer in the tavern. But she didn’t manage to reach the stricken young girl.

  ‘You wanna watch your manners, Darnel!’ The male voice issued a warning and Connie’s head whipped around. Her heart lifted when she saw Danny Harris sprint up the street, heading straight for the spiv.

  No seven stone weakling that’s for sure. Connie could see the army had built Danny up like a centurion, and he was more than a match for Darnel. She smiled when local women in their brightly coloured, turbaned headscarves nudged each other and nodded to Danny.

  ‘Not so cocky now, Mr Darnel,’ one woman shouted. Faced with Dann
y, and in his haste to retreat behind the door of number two, Darnel pushed Evie with such force she staggered and fell onto the cobbled road. Then, grabbing Rene by the arm, he dragged her into the house behind him, slamming the front door with a bang.

  Evie looked dazed and unsteady when Danny scooped her into his arms. The satisfied housewives of Reckoner’s Row nodded their approval, although Evie, her blouse ripped and her matted hair streaked with her own blood, didn’t look happy at being rescued.

  ‘Put me down, right now,’ she demanded, and Connie could see the pink tinge under her splash of freckles, Evie’s acute embarrassment obvious. ‘Let go of me before I scratch yer bloody eyes out!’ Danny did as he was told, lightly lowering her to the cobbles.

  ‘Off you go and get your dinner, Bobby. There’s a good lad,’ Connie told the boy. The sideshow was over. The onlookers were dispersing to their own houses to chew the afternoon’s shenanigans over with their roast dinner. Connie knew, no matter how hot the weather or how light their purse, the women of Reckoner’s Row always put on a hearty Sunday dinner.

  Bobby did not conceal his disappointment when Connie ushered him to the bar to collect his cap. He suspected their Danny had a soft spot for Evie, and reckoned he’d let Darnel go because he had his mind on something other than fighting with a lowlife in the middle of the street.

  ‘Connie, can I go swimming in the Cut?’ Bobby asked, haphazardly pushing his cap onto his head.

  ‘Ask your mam,’ Connie answered, returning to her chores while an embarrassed Evie scolded Danny outside.

  ‘Mam won’t let me she says it’s too dangerous,’ Bobby answered, putting the last glass on the bar.

  ‘So, what makes you think I’ll let you?’ Connie asked, taking it and washing it in soapy water.

  ‘You’ve got a soft heart, me mam hasn’t,’ he replied, and his remark made Connie’s stomach flip, but even so she refused to be drawn into Bobbie’s emotional blackmail.

  ‘I’m not so soft-hearted, because I’m saying the same,’ Connie answered. ‘You can’t swim in the canal because it’s filthy. You’ll catch something nasty.’ That’s what she would have said to her own child, too – if she had one.