The Journey Read online

  Suddenly she was calling for Tillie to clap a tune, and when the girl started, Bridget leaped to her feet and holding her skirt high, she began kicking out to the sound of the clapping. And soon the clapping got faster and faster and Bridget danced and laughed and it wasn’t long before she fell into the chair, face bright red and aglow with delight. “Come on!” she told Tillie. “Get up and I’ll show you how to do it.”

  But before Tillie could do so, the sound of a child crying brought the laughter to an end. “Oh, the poor little divil, we’ve woke him, so we have!”

  Quickly now she ran through to the cot and took the child out—a healthy-looking little chap with chubby face, startled from his afternoon nap by all the tapping and the clapping and the laughter that rang through the house.

  “Ah, sure he’s a bonny little fella, so he is,” Bridget cooed, and soon he was quiet on her lap, his mouth open like a fish at feeding time and his small hand stroking her blouse as he woke up properly.

  “Will ye look at him,” she laughed tenderly. She handed the child to Tillie. “Best get his supper ready, me darling,” she suggested. “Then you might take him upstairs for his bath. It’ll soon be his bedtime, so it will.”

  Tillie put him in his highchair and there he sat, quiet as a mouse, chewing on his knuckles and watching Bridget as she gazed down on him. “I can’t believe how he’s grown,” she declared. “How old is he exactly?” She was never a one for figures—unless it was a strong man with a gorgeous arse and broad shoulders.

  Tillie looked round from buttering his fingers of freshly baked bread. She added some little square of cheese for Jamie to nibble on while she cooked his soft-boiled egg. “He’s a year and six months old,” she enlightened Bridget. “A real little boy now, no longer a baby.” She chuckled girlishly. “He walked along the sofa-edge yesterday, and his fat little legs went all bandy.”

  Bridget laughed. “If he keeps on like that, it won’t be long before he’s off to work with his pack on his back,” she teased.

  The women were tender with the little lad, as he had been born with one of his legs shorter than the other, and found it hard to balance. Bridget studied the child’s features. Unlike his mammy, whose eyes were golden-brown, he had the darkest eyes; his hair, though, was the same color as hers—the shiny rich brown of ripe chestnuts.

  Like his mammy, the child had that same quick smile and infectious laughter; though these last two years Lucy had not laughed overmuch, because she was lonely and sad, though as with every deep emotion, she tried hard not to show it. But Bridget knew, and she wondered now about the man who had come to her door. “There was a man here today,” she told Tillie, who had returned with the egg-cup and spoon, and a small beaker of milk for the child.

  “I know.” Tillie was as discreet as ever. “I heard him knocking the door down. He was determined to be heard.”

  “Lynette answered the door, didn’t she?” Bridget wondered if Tillie knew more than she was saying.

  “Yes, I was changing this one’s napkin. The others were out. They’re still out, as far as I know.” She held the beaker-lip to Jamie’s mouth again, cautioning him when he snatched at it and almost sent it flying. “Why?”

  Bridget thought a moment, then in a quiet voice she told Tillie, “Susie described him to me.”

  “Did she?” The girl wiped the child’s mouth and put the beaker to the floor. “I didn’t see him.” But she had heard him. She had heard them. Yet she never spoke of what she heard in this house. Bridget had given her a roof over her head and she never questioned or judged what went on here.

  Bridget was quiet for a time, then she spoke, again in a quiet voice as though she was deep in thought. “I’ve a feeling it’s him!”

  Tillie had spooned a helping of yolk into the child’s mouth, but it was now all over his face, so she was wiping him with the flannel she had in her pocket. She looked up at Bridget’s statement. “Who?”

  “Frankie Trent—the baby’s father. I think Lucy told you how things started with him. He followed her home from Wavertree Park one day and was all over her, and bad bugger. Had his way with her, promised the earth then cleared off about three months later. After that, her parents split up and she lost her home. Fat lot of good her so-called boyfriend was then, eh?”

  Having finished the feeding, Tillie lifted the child out on to her lap. “Crikey!” Her eyes grew wide as saucers. “I thought he’d upped and gone to sea. Got fed up wi’ working on the docks, didn’t he? An’ he ain’t never been in touch since.”

  “That’s right—and good shuts to him. But bad pennies have a way of turning up again. And he was a bad penny if ever there was one—though she never saw it.”

  “She loved him, that’s why.” Lucy had spoken long and deep to Tillie about her sweetheart, the father of her child. “He was good to her, wasn’t he?”

  “Not all the time.” Bridget’s expression hardened. “I reckon he used to hit her—oh, not so’s you’d notice from the outside, but he hurt her all the same. Even her mam an’ dad warned her against him. She couldn’t see what he was truly like, though. She loved him, y’see? She still loves him, even after he buggered off and left her with child.”

  Bridget was afraid for Lucy. Afraid of why Frank Trent had come back. What was he after? As far as she was concerned, the man was no good, and never would be.

  “He never even wrote to her, did he?” Tillie had not forgiven him for doing that to her friend. Poor Lucy had been frantic for a long while, not knowing which way to turn, wanting to tell him about his son once Jamie was born, but with no idea how to contact him.

  Bridget didn’t answer because her thoughts were miles away. What’s he up to? she mused silently. Why is he here after all this time?

  It seemed the very same question was crossing young Tillie’s mind. “Why do you think he’s come back?” she said apprehensively.

  Her employer shrugged. “Who knows?” She recalled what Lynette had told her. “He came looking for her, that’s for sure. And he’s gone to find her as we speak.”

  She sighed. “I only hope Lucy has enough sense not to be taken in by him a second time.”

  Seven

  Unaware of developments at home, Lucy drove her energy into the last task of the day. “Almost done now,” she told the curious magpie who had been watching her for the past ten minutes or so. “Another few good wallops, and there won’t be a speck of dust left.”

  Raising the beater, she brought it down against the rug so hard that it danced on the clothes-line; another good hard wallop, and the dust flew in all directions, not as much as when she had first brought the rug out, but enough to give her a coughing fit, and send the startled magpie off to the skies.

  “Cowardly creative!” she called after it. “Mind, if I had wings, I’d be off too.” Oh, and she would an’ all! Away above the chimney-tops ever so high, she would raise her head and flap her wings fast and furious until she was across the oceans, then she’d keep going until she reached some tropical paradise. But she wouldn’t go alone, oh no. Wherever she went, she would take her darling son with her.

  From the office window upstairs, the tall, elegant woman watched Lucy as she worked; the Squire’s secretary could hear Lucy’s voice raised in song, but that wasn’t unusual, because during her working day, whether inside or out, Lucy’s melodious singing could be heard all over Haskell House. “You’re a good soul, Lucy Baker,” Miss McGuire murmured, putting down her fountain-pen. “Hardworking and happy as the day is long.”

  As she watched Lucy hoist the rug from the line and drop it to the ground, she was taken by surprise when the girl suddenly looked up to see her there. “I won’t be long,” she called out. “I’m finished just now.”

  Lucy quickened her steps toward the house, the hot breeze playing with the hem of her skirt, her feet bare as the day she was born; with the rug carried in her arms, like a mother might carry a bairn, she made a fetching sight.

  When a moment or two later
, Lucy burst into the kitchen, Miss McGuire was waiting for her. “For the life of me, Lucy, I don’t know why you beat the rug when you could use that new vacuum cleaner. It was bought to suck up the dirt and dust from the floor, after all, and to save the staff here from heavy work.”

  “I do use it,” Lucy protested, “but it’s not very good. Sometimes things get stuck in it and it won’t work, and then old Jake has to see to it, and while he’s doing that I still have to beat the rugs.” She prodded the one in her arms. “This one is no good at all. It’s got long fringes and they go flying up into the workings and then it’s the devil’s own job to free them. It’s much quicker just to give it a sound beating on the clothes-line.”

  The Squire’s secretary tended to agree, but did not say so. Instead she looked down at Lucy’s bare feet. Small and neat, they were covered in a film of dust, and there was the tiniest leaf sticking out between the toes. “Never mind the rug,” she retorted. “Perhaps you’d like to tell me why you aren’t wearing your boots?” Exasperated at the times she had asked the young woman to always wear her boots for fear of hurting herself on the harsh ground, she groaned. “Just look at your poor feet, Lucy … covered in dust and picking up all the debris from the ground. One of these days you’re bound to get an injury. I’ve asked you so many times to wear your work-boots, I’m worn out with it.”

  Lucy looked down at her feet. “I’m a mucky pup, I know,” she conceded, wiggling her toes to be rid of the leaf, “but I feel so uncomfortable with the boots on. I’m sorry, Miss McGuire. I’ll try to wear them, I promise.”

  “And how many times have you said that?” The secretary rolled her eyes. “And how many times have I seen you running about in your bare feet? It isn’t as though you’re a child, Lucy. You’re a grown woman of nearly thirty, for heaven’s sake, and you have a little one to think of. What would happen if something fell on your feet and broke them? How would you go on then, eh?”

  “I know, and I’m really sorry,” Lucy repeated. “I promise I’ll try to keep the shoes on.” Lucy hated wearing shoes of any kind, almost as much as she hated cold porridge.

  “Mind you do then.” The secretary was a kindly sort. She had little to do with the housekeeper’s staff here at the House, but she had always had a soft spot for Lucy.

  “Anyway, enough of this. It’s time you went home,” she told Lucy now. “There hasn’t been a day in the past fortnight when you’ve left on time.”

  “That’s ’cause I like to finish all my work before I go,” Lucy explained.

  “I know that, all too well,” came the reply. “But you must leave time for yourself … and the child.” The secretary tried hard not to be shocked by the young woman’s situation as an unmarried mother. The Squire never listened to gossip so he remained ignorant of Jamie’s existence; however, some of the other staff were aware of her status and shunned Lucy because of it.

  “Oh, I do!” Lucy answered eagerly. “When I’m not working here, I spend every passing minute with him.” A look of sheer joy lit her face. “You can’t know how much I love him. No one can.”

  Dorothy was fond enough of Lucy to tell her, “I’m sure I do know how much you love him. All I’m saying is this: it’s no wonder you still haven’t found a man to take care of you and the child, what with you working all hours, and here you are already twenty-nine years of age. Most young women are safely married and settled in their own home at that age.” This didn’t apply to her either, she acknowledge sadly.

  When she saw the downcast look on Lucy’s face she was mortified. “I’ve spoken out of turn, my dear. I didn’t mean to be cruel. It’s just that you’re such a lovely young woman and I do care what happens to you. I’d hate to think you were destined to spend your life all alone.”

  “It’s all right, Miss McGuire, I don’t mind.” But she did, and now her thoughts were filled with memories of a dark-eyed man who had quickly come into her life and filled her days with fun, and then just as quickly gone out of her life, without so much as a how’s your father!

  But she had not forgotten him. She never would. Especially when he’d left her with child, and it had caused so much trouble at home that she was made to leave in disgrace—and soon after, her mother and father split up and went their separate ways. And now she had no family at all, save for her little boy, who was everything to her.

  “Go on then! Be off with you, before the housekeeper finds you another job to do. And don’t worry. I’ll let her know you’ve gone.”

  The woman’s voice invaded her thoughts, and when she looked up, the kindly secretary was already on her way down the long corridor.

  Dragging the rug through the kitchen, Lucy got it to the drawing room, where she rolled it out before the big fireplace. “All done for another day.” Sometimes Lucy sang, and sometimes like now, she talked to herself, and then there was the time when she got caught dancing on the sofa-table and almost got her marching orders from the housekeeper.

  It was the same at home. Often Bridget would say, “For the love of God, will ye sit still and be quiet!” But she couldn’t. There was too much life in her, and it wasn’t her fault.

  Without wasting any more time, Lucy ran to the cupboard where her two pairs of shoes were lined up: black lace-up boots for work, and daintier shoes with ankle-straps for going home in. Taking out the ankle-strap shoes, she put them on and, flicking her long hair out of her eyes, she hurried out of the back door, her voice raised in song and her feet skipping as she went.

  By the kennels at the side of the house, Lucy stopped to pet the hounds. She had a marvellous way with animals; whenever they had the chance, the squire’s hounds would follow her everywhere, and while everyone else would stay clear of the bull in its pen, Lucy could often be seen defying instructions to lean over the gate and stroke its nose.

  Lucy was halfway down the hill when she stopped to take off her shoes. The grass looked so warm, lush and inviting in the evening heat. Tying the ankle straps together, she slung the shoes over her shoulder and went on in bare feet.

  She was almost at the brook when she saw the figure of a man coming toward her. It wasn’t the Squire, or he’d have his dogs with him, and it wasn’t Barney Davidson from Overhill Farm, because he was smaller-built.

  She often spoke with Barney when he was out on the hills with his sheep or doing other work on the land. She liked him; he had a kind, caring manner, and was easy to talk with. In fact, if he wasn’t married and she wasn’t still completely infatuated with Frank, she could have fallen for him herself.

  While Lucy grew increasingly curious about the man approaching from the bottom of the hill, he was also straining his eyes to see if it really was Lucy drawing ever closer, though when he saw that familiar wave of long hair flowing in the breeze and the cheeky swagger of her long limbs, he knew it was her and began to run. “LUCY!” The wind carried his voice across the valley. “LUCY BAKER, IT’S ME! IT’S YOUR SWEETHEART COME HOME!”

  Hearing the voice, but unable to decipher the words, Lucy stopped and stared. With the sun directly in her face she couldn’t see his features. But she saw the long, confident strides as he ran to her, and when he dropped the kitbag from his back, there was something disturbingly familiar about the way he moved. Slowly but surely, realization dawned. “Frankie? My Frankie?” She whispered his name; was it really him? Excitement coursed through her, but she didn’t call out or run forward. She didn’t dare trust her own judgment.

  By the time he got closer for her to recognize him, she took to her heels and ran to meet him. When he caught her in his arms and swung her high in the air, she laughed and cried with sheer joy. “Oh Frankie, I thought I’d never see you again!” She looked into his dark eyes and thought she would never again be so happy.

  “I told you I’d be back.” Breathless, he set her down. “I’ve never forgotten you, Lucy. Every day, every minute we’ve been apart, I’ve thought of this day.”

  Caught up in the excitement of the moment, he kissed
her long and hard, and held the kiss until Lucy thought she would suffocate.

  “Stop!” Flattening her hands against his chest she remembered how he had walked out on her. “What makes you think you can waltz back into my life and just pick up where you left off? You signed up and sailed away without a by your leave, and now you’re back with the same damned cheek of it!”

  Lucy had not forgotten the humiliation, the pain of it all, and then the despair. It had been a bad business for her, and then she found out she was with child and had to suffer in silence until she could hide the secret no longer. Her pregnancy—which caused a great scandal in the neighborhood—created rows and repercussions between her parents, and in the end she witnessed the break-up of her family, and that was as much Frank’s fault as her own.

  For a long time things had gone from bad to worse, and still she had hoped he might return. But he never did—until now. And though she was thrilled beyond words to see him, she couldn’t help but chide him. “You let me down good and proper, Frankie Trent!”

  When he now looked desolate, she instantly forgave him and taking off at the run, shouted, “If you want me, you’ll have to catch me!”

  And catch her he did; on the little slope just above the stream. He threw himself bodily at her, and together the two of them went rolling down the hill, until they landed up right next to the brook. She cupped a handful of water and chucked it at him while he lay helpless with laughter.

  “You’re a bloody lunatic!” he screeched, and she couldn’t speak for spluttering. Her heart was leaping about inside her like a salmon: after all this time, when she had given up any hope of ever seeing him again, Frank Trent was back.

  It was too wonderful for words. Her baby’s father was home to make a proper life for them. They would be a family at last, and if Lucy could have jumped over the moon right then and there, she would have done.

  Wrapping his strong sailor’s arms about her slim waist, he inched her toward the soft rich grass that lined the stream’s edge, and right there, with the clean, fresh water lapping over their bare feet, he laid her down and took her with a kind of animal hunger; not tenderly, not gently or cruelly, but the only way he knew how, driven by lust and the overriding greed to be satisfied. This was his third partner of the day, his fourth coupling, and for a little while, his passion subsided.