A Pocket Full of Shells by Jean Reinhardt

looked at the sleeping James and one of the women nudged him with her foot.
         Early next morning, half asleep with his eyes closed, James smiled as he stroked the soft, long hair belonging to the warm body lying beside him. 
         “Mary,” he murmured as he slowly woke up.
         A roar of laughter from Michael jolted him out of his slumber. When he opened his eyes the collie was licking his face. 
         “So that’s how Mary wakes you up in the morning. She could teach Brigid a thing or two.”
    A young woman brushed past Michael and stepped off the barge, blowing a kiss back to Matthew.
         “Where did she come from?” asked James, wiping his face.
         Matthew smiled and said, “We have an arrangement. In fact her friend came back here with us last night but you were out cold, James. Some watchman you are, and Michael couldn’t be woken either. Not that we tried too hard, both of you being married, you probably wouldn’t have been interested, would you?”
    The young men shook their heads vigorously.
         “Would that have come out of our wages, Matthew?” asked Michael.
    The barge owner shook with laughter.
         “Of course it would. All I’m providing is bed and board and a hot meal.”
         “Thanks for thinking of us,” said James, “But you are widowed and entitled to have an ‘arrangement.’ It wouldn’t be right for either of us. I’m glad we slept. We might have been tempted.”
         “I know, lad, the girls talked me into it. The other one went off with a man she knew, who happened to be passing by.”
     

     
     
    CHAPTER 11
         Having helped to load the coal on the barge, James and Michael bade farewell and thanked Matthew for getting them to Leeds.
         “Look me up next time you are in Liverpool,” he shouted back, as he set off to retrieve his horse from the stable in which it had spent the night.
    A young man who had been glad of a lift to Liverpool, was on the barge unravelling ropes that would be needed for the journey. He warned the two Irishmen to be careful of where they slept and ate as there was typhus in the city, especially the east side, called the Bank. This was where many who had tried to escape the poverty and hunger in Ireland had ended up. It was a place they should avoid.
         “Shouldn’t we just keep walking and head for Sunderland?” Michael suggested as they looked around the streets.
    James knew that would be the sensible thing to do. 
         “Matthew did say it would only take a couple of days to walk it,” he said, “Let’s buy some bread and ask someone to point us in the right direction.”
         A young girl was begging outside a shop as James and Michael went inside. They purchased some food and asked the baker which of the streets would lead them to the road for Sunderland. Giving them directions, he stepped outside.
         “Go on with you,” he shouted at the frail little thing standing at his door, hands outstretched.
         “Pesky beggars” he said as they watched her shuffle up the street and turn into an alley.
         As James and Michael approached the spot where the young girl had disappeared a pair of small, grubby feet could be seen on the ground sticking out from the laneway. James ran ahead to look around the corner and found her lying in the dirt crying, pitiful sobs shaking her tiny frame.
    He gently picked up the child, asking where she lived. She was as light as a feather and cold as ice.
         “Cross Street,” she said weakly. “Do you know the Bank?”
         “If I carry you can you show us the way? Will your mother be home?” asked James.
    The little girl shook her head. 
         “My mother died last week. My daddy will be there.”
    Pleading with James to leave the child make her own way home, Michael followed, at a distance.
         Standing in front of the house the young girl had brought them to, James and Michael had