At the mention of her daughter, Sylvie’s face softened. ‘Yes, you’re right. Becky makes everything worthwhile. Despite her father, she’s the most beautiful little thing, and I have to say his parents adore her, and they’re kind enough to me in their way.’
There was a short silence whilst Brendan mulled over her words. At length he said, tentatively, ‘That’s no reason for you to be crying, in such a place, and at such a time, too.’
Sylvie sighed. ‘It’s rather a long story,’ she said. ‘Are you sure you want to hear it?’
Brendan nodded emphatically, and as Sylvie began to speak he realised that this was a much-needed release, and that simply sharing her story would help her more than any sympathetic words of his could do.
‘Before I was married me name was Sylvie Davies, and we lived next door to a family called Wentworth. Sally Wentworth and I were bezzies, even though she were two full years older’n me. We went everywhere together, to and from school, on our mams’ messages . . . we even shared treats when one of us had something nice. It were grand having a bezzy like Sally. She had an older brother called Rob who was ever so good to us. We thought he was wonderful; he was always slippin’ us pennies for the picture show. I suppose I had a bit of a crush on him when we were kids.’
Brendan waited patiently whilst Sylvie gazed into the fire and, he presumed, thought lovingly of her childhood. However, when the silence stretched, he prompted her, as gently as he could. ‘And . . . ?’
‘Then Robbie went away to sea and when he did come home, which wasn’t often, he didn’t take much notice of Sally and me,’ Sylvie said. ‘Well . . . I was a married woman with a kid and Sally was working at the jam factory. About four months ago, he came home on a long leave and found Len in prison and myself at a loose end. He said he felt sorry for me and took me around a bit. I was flattered and didn’t realise where his kindness was leading until . . . until . . .’
Brendan gazed at her. He could guess what must be coming next but felt he had to hear the full story from her own lips. ‘If you mean he persuaded you to – to go to bed with him, then I understand why you were crying,’ he said slowly. ‘But you’d better tell me, in case I’ve got it wrong.’
Sylvie sighed and bent her head, pleating a piece of blanket, then smoothing it out again. Brendan reflected that it must be taking a deal of courage to relate her story to a stranger and was tempted to spare her the pain of more revelations, but suddenly she raised her eyes and looked at him squarely. ‘Yes, I’m pregnant,’ she said baldly. ‘I’m almost four months gone and Len’s coming out of gaol tomorrow to attend his grandfather’s funeral. He’ll take one look at me and he’ll guess because I shan’t be able to look him in the eye – oh, I’m so ashamed – and then he’ll kill me because Len’s jealous as a cat an’ strong as an ox. Oh, he may not do it tomorrow, but he’ll do it just as soon as he gets out of jug, I’m sure of that. I went to my sister Annie tonight because I thought she’d tell me what to do, but the only idea she had was – was doing something awful, wi’ hot baths and drinkin’ a bottle o’ gin . . . other than that, she didn’t seem to have any ideas at all.’
Brendan looked doubtfully across at her. He could well understand why she had been crying and thought that, had he not already decided she was a decent kid, he might have suspected that her dive into the river had been deliberate after all; she had reason enough for a desperate act, God knows. However, he could not help disapproving strongly of what she had done. He knew Len Dugdale might be a violent man but this did not excuse her behaviour. She had broken one of the Ten Commandments by committing adultery, an act so dreadful that Brendan thought she would never be able to forgive herself, let alone expect forgiveness from others. However, it would scarcely help to say so. Instead, he smiled at her, saying bracingly: ‘Well, alanna, I won’t deny you’ve done a terrible bad t’ing because you must know it yourself, but—’
‘It wasn’t just me what did a terrible thing! Why, the terrible thing was being tricked into an empty house by Robbie so he could have his way with me,’ Sylvie said wildly. ‘So far as Robbie was concerned it was just a bit of fun. I wrote and told him what had happened as soon as I knew but he hasn’t replied. Why should he? It isn’t fellers what pays for a bit of fun – it’s us women. I did think about gin an’ that and those old women in the courts what’ll do away wi’ a baby before it’s born, only girls die, don’t they, and it’s a mortal sin as well . . .’
‘Life is unfair,’ Brendan agreed, thinking that this Robbie had probably got a girl in every port. If I ever get to meet him, my fist and his nose will have something to say to one another, he thought vindictively.
‘And I know Len will kill me when he gets out of Walton,’ Sylvie continued.
‘No he won’t. I realise you’ll have to go to the funeral tomorrow, but Len won’t attend the wake afterwards, if that’s what’s worrying you, and he’ll have a couple of warders with him from start to finish. You must put a brave face on it and simply steer clear of him, apart from saying hello and so on. Remember, even though he’s been slammed up for a couple of years he must have seen you at visiting times, so he’s very unlikely to notice any change in your shape. Why, I fished you out of the river with every garment clinging to you and I couldn’t tell.’
This seemed to cheer Sylvie, for she gave him a tremulous smile. ‘But as soon as I do begin to show, his horrible old mam will write to him, or visit him in prison,’ she pointed out. ‘And if it ain’t Ma or Pa Dugdale, it’ll be someone else; you know how folk love to pass on gossip. Come to that, I’m not too sure what Pa Dugdale might do if he found out. They’ll know the baby isn’t Len’s, of course, so they might light into me straight away and not wait for Len.’ An enormous shudder shook her small frame and made her thick, silver-blonde hair shiver. ‘I try not to be a coward but it’s hard when you can still remember the pain; I did tell you Len broke three of my ribs once, didn’t I? And he tramped on me toes until me feet were black and blue.’
Brendan stared at her. He knew adultery was terribly wrong but it was nothing compared with what Len Dugdale had done to her, and if this Robbie Wentworth had had a morsel of sense he would never have dreamed of seducing a married girl, exposing her to such grave danger. Brendan leaned forward in his chair, gazing earnestly into her small pale face. ‘You’re right; you can’t stay at the Ferryman until the baby is born,’ he said gruffly, for he did not want her to see how her predicament had touched him. ‘I don’t mean to save your life one minute and let some bug— I mean some brute half kill you the next. I don’t know when Dugdale’s due for release but that isn’t important, not really.’ Sylvie was gazing at him with wide-eyed admiration, so once again he spoke rather to reassure than to inform. ‘I’ll attend this funeral tomorrow – where’s it to be, by the way? – just to keep an eye on you. But as soon as it’s over and Dugdale’s safely back in gaol, I’ll put my mind to solving your predicament. I’m sure there’s a way out – there has to be.’ He rose to his feet and began to gather up Sylvie’s clothing, now nicely dried out, though very crumpled. ‘The pub will have shut some time ago but I dare say you can get into the Ferryman without being noticed. Anyway, I’ll walk you home, so if you need a boost in through a window . . .’
Clutching the blankets to her and holding out one hand for the clothes, Sylvie rose to her feet. ‘You are good,’ she said fervently. ‘I never thought I’d be glad to fall in the perishin’ Mersey, but I reckon it were the best thing that could have happened to me. To tell you the truth, when I hit the water I thought of the only advice Annie had give me – you know, hot baths and a big glass of gin – and I wondered if a cold one wouldn’t do just as well.’ She smoothed a hand gently over her still flat stomach, smiling with a tenderness that caused Brendan to swallow convulsively. ‘But as I said, girls die when they try tricks like that.’
‘Right, and now tell me when and where old Dugdale’s funeral is to take place,’ Brendan said quickly, not wanting to go into any moral issues now.
‘Oh, the funeral! It’s at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning, at St Anthony’s, on the Scottie, and then at Anfield Cemetery. Can – can you really come? Only you’ve been so good, constable, that I wouldn’t want you to get into trouble on my account.’
‘I’m off duty tomorrow morning, having been on nights for a whole week, and you’d better start calling me Brendan because I’m going to call you Sylvie,’ Brendan said briefly. ‘And of course I’ll come to the funeral, though I’ll come in civvies, not in uniform. I won’t speak to you but I’ll hang back as we come out of church and you can tip me the wink, somehow or other, if there’s trouble brewing. And now I’ll pop upstairs and get my old coat and cap whilst you dress yourself.’ He smiled at her. ‘See you in ten minutes, if that’s long enough?’
‘That’ll be fine,’ Sylvie said. ‘See you presently, then.’
Chapter Two
By the time Brendan and Sylvie had dressed themselves as warmly as they could, and Brendan had borrowed a large black umbrella from the coat stand in the hall, the rain had almost stopped. Brendan tried to slow his long stride to match Sylvie’s, but she tucked a small hand into the crook of his elbow and kept pace with him, chattering almost gaily, though in a quiet and subdued voice, as they traversed the dark and windy streets.
Brendan knew the Ferryman well; it was a seamen’s pub, of course, but every such place had its regulars. Men – and occasionally women – who lived in the neighbourhood preferred to drink at a place not far from home; a place furthermore where they were known and could sometimes drink on tick if the landlord was aware of their circumstances and knew he would get his money on pay day. The Ferryman was a very large building: an elaborate Victorian mansion, with four short fat towers capped by curly slate-roofed turrets. The place attracted a crowd of hangers-on, of course, lads either too young or too penniless to buy a drink at the bar, so Brendan always kept a wary eye on it whilst on his beat. Mr Dugdale and his wife had two barmen and it occurred to Brendan to ask his companion which of these burly gentlemen was her brother. She shot him an amused look.
‘Neither of ’em,’ she assured him. ‘My brother Bertie’s the cellar man. He’s short with reddish hair and limps because he were a seaman once and got knifed in a brawl. That’s why he came ashore, because the knife had cut a tendon or something behind his knee and he couldn’t keep upright on the deck no more. But he’s really strong – you have to be to do his job. He’s older than me. He’s thirty.’
‘I’ve got a brother . . .’ Brendan began, but his companion was talking again.
‘My sisters are older than me as well – Annie, Ellen and Reet. None of ’em are married yet, though Ellen and Reet are both engaged to seamen and hope to get wed next summer. Annie is me favourite sister ’cos she brought me up, more or less. She’s different. She’s got a real good job as housekeeper at the big hotel on Church Street, opposite St Peter’s Cathedral. She says she won’t ever marry ’cos all men are brutes; she’ll have a career instead. She still comes home when she’s off duty, though she lives in the hotel most of the time. She’s got a dear little room where we can talk without the family overhearing; in fact, that’s where I went this evening. But she’s moving to a London hotel soon, so we shan’t see so much of her,’ Sylvie finished.
Brendan blinked, taken aback by the volume of information, but he realised that she was simply chattering to ease the strangeness of walking the dark streets with someone she scarcely knew. Also, he guessed it was a brave attempt to take his mind off what she had already told him, so he answered her in kind. ‘You’re lucky to have a big family near enough to visit and your sister Annie sounds grand,’ he told her. ‘I’ve only got one brother and no sisters at all, and since, as you’ve probably guessed, I’m from Ireland, I can’t see any of ’em except on my annual holiday. But I’ve an uncle living in Lancashire; he’s a village bobby, a grand feller, so when I get the chance – when I’m off duty, that is – I visit him and his family for a bit of a change from city life.’
He had hoped to make her feel more at ease and this seemed to do the trick, so he beguiled the rest of their walk with a description of the little farm in Connemara where he had been born and where his parents still lived. She exclaimed over the fact that his mother and father were both nearing seventy – her mother was only fifty – and this led to Brendan’s explaining that, as a general rule, the Irish married much later than their English counterparts. ‘For ’tis economical sense to save up for a home of your own before marrying,’ he told her. He did not add that both priests and parents encouraged late marriages because if a woman was forty before she wed she was unlikely to have a large family.
‘I wish it were like that here,’ Sylvie said, rather dolefully. ‘I were only seventeen when I had Becky and Len’s a lot older than me, o’ course.’
By this time they were approaching the Ferryman and Brendan drew her to a halt where there was a dark patch between two hissing gas lamps. ‘Look, alanna, how long do you reckon it’ll be before your ma-in-law – or someone else – realises you’re in the family way? Only it’s pretty clear to me that you’ll be in danger if you stay in Liverpool once the Dugdales know there’s a child on the way. Is there anywhere that you and Becky can go, where the Dugdales won’t find you?’
‘I don’t know of anywhere,’ Sylvie said miserably. ‘I’ve tried to think of a good reason for goin’ away, only even if I did, neither Becky nor meself can live on air. At present, of course, the Dugdales pay for just about everything.’ She smiled brightly up at him, though there was trouble in her large eyes. ‘What do you think I should do?’
Brendan sighed, but not aloud. She was so young, so trusting, and so very pretty. As they walked, he had been thinking hard, and now he came up with an idea, if not a solution. ‘I t’ink what you’ll have to do is to leave Becky behind, because you know they love the child and would never abandon her,’ he said slowly. ‘Then you could tell them you’ve been offered a live-in job with a rich family. You could say they have come over from America to visit their relations in Ireland, so will only want someone for six months and are prepared to pay well. You’d have to beg them, very prettily, to take great care of Becky because your new employers would not consider taking on anyone with a child of their own. And then you could go to my cousin in Dublin, have the baby, get it adopted, and return to Liverpool. You can give them my cousin’s address so they can write, and you can write back. Only . . . only will they believe it, do you think, or will they smell a rat?’