husband’s death, ten years earlier.
Because of her knowledge of the force, she was understanding of the lives her lodgers led, knowing very well that they were not at fault when they did not come in for meals, worked double shifts, or were simply forced to go on duty instead of taking the only day off they had been allocated, perhaps for as long as three weeks.
However, there had been no mention of his working today when he had signed off from his night shift, so Brendan was determined to get out of the house and stay out; if the force was unable to contact him he might actually get his day off for once.
By half-past eight he was making his way towards the market. He knew Sylvie could not possibly arrive at such an early hour, but he still felt he would be safer away from the house. He was wearing civvies, of course, and not the ones which the police force recommended either. They told the men that their off-duty wear should be blue suits and bowler hats, but Brendan knew there was no actual rule which insisted on this, so today he was clad in a navy blue seaman’s jersey, and a pair of heavy-duty denim trousers, tucked into short rubber boots. On his head he wore a woollen hat, for the December day was cold, and despite his height and the way he carried himself he was sure that he did not look like a policeman. He realised how right he was when Sylvie failed to recognise him, though she had known he would not be in uniform. Her incurious eyes looked him over without recognition and it was not until he hissed her name that she looked again, and her slow, enchanting smile broke out.
‘Brendan!’ she said joyfully. ‘Oh, I was beginning to wonder whether you’d forgotten we were meeting here. I’ve bought my fish and the rest of my messages. Do you know Dorothy’s Dining Rooms? They deal mostly with market traders so I think we could pop in there and have a quiet talk over a cup of tea.’
‘Yes, I know it. I’ve been in there once or twice; they do a good special for ninepence.’
Presently, they found themselves a quiet corner table and ordered tea from an elderly waitress, who looked as though her feet were killing her. Sylvie was wearing the long black coat, black stockings and black boots in which Brendan had first seen her, but she had added a black head square which she wore pulled forward so that it half hid the upper part of her face, as well as completely covering her hair. Brendan thought it extremely unlikely that anyone would recognise either of them; folk looked at policemen’s uniforms rather than their faces and, for economic reasons, nine out of ten married women in the city habitually wore black.
The tea arrived, and as soon as the waitress had departed Sylvie began to speak. ‘My mam knows I’m expecting a baby. It wasn’t so much my shape as – as because she guessed. She watched me wash the morning after I’d fallen in the Mersey and instead of pulling my nightdress off and getting on with it I – I sort of dabbled around. Then she asked me outright. I tried lying but me heart wasn’t in it, and anyway it’s a good job she does know, because she’ll help me, though only on certain conditions.’
‘What conditions?’ Brendan asked suspiciously. He wondered whether the old lady might imagine Sylvie’s lover to be a rich man who could hand over money in exchange for her silence, but Sylvie soon disabused him on that score.
‘She agrees that I must leave Becky behind, though I still hate the thought of doing that. But she says it wouldn’t be right to involve the child in deceit, and besides you couldn’t expect her not to mention that she had a baby brother or sister when we came back to Liverpool, which would put the fat in the fire and no mistake.’
Brendan laughed. ‘You’re right there,’ he agreed. ‘Any more conditions? From what you’ve told me, your mother is a sensible woman with her head screwed on the right way, and it’s grand that she means to help us.
Because of her knowledge of the force, she was understanding of the lives her lodgers led, knowing very well that they were not at fault when they did not come in for meals, worked double shifts, or were simply forced to go on duty instead of taking the only day off they had been allocated, perhaps for as long as three weeks.
However, there had been no mention of his working today when he had signed off from his night shift, so Brendan was determined to get out of the house and stay out; if the force was unable to contact him he might actually get his day off for once.
By half-past eight he was making his way towards the market. He knew Sylvie could not possibly arrive at such an early hour, but he still felt he would be safer away from the house. He was wearing civvies, of course, and not the ones which the police force recommended either. They told the men that their off-duty wear should be blue suits and bowler hats, but Brendan knew there was no actual rule which insisted on this, so today he was clad in a navy blue seaman’s jersey, and a pair of heavy-duty denim trousers, tucked into short rubber boots. On his head he wore a woollen hat, for the December day was cold, and despite his height and the way he carried himself he was sure that he did not look like a policeman. He realised how right he was when Sylvie failed to recognise him, though she had known he would not be in uniform. Her incurious eyes looked him over without recognition and it was not until he hissed her name that she looked again, and her slow, enchanting smile broke out.
‘Brendan!’ she said joyfully. ‘Oh, I was beginning to wonder whether you’d forgotten we were meeting here. I’ve bought my fish and the rest of my messages. Do you know Dorothy’s Dining Rooms? They deal mostly with market traders so I think we could pop in there and have a quiet talk over a cup of tea.’
‘Yes, I know it. I’ve been in there once or twice; they do a good special for ninepence.’
Presently, they found themselves a quiet corner table and ordered tea from an elderly waitress, who looked as though her feet were killing her. Sylvie was wearing the long black coat, black stockings and black boots in which Brendan had first seen her, but she had added a black head square which she wore pulled forward so that it half hid the upper part of her face, as well as completely covering her hair. Brendan thought it extremely unlikely that anyone would recognise either of them; folk looked at policemen’s uniforms rather than their faces and, for economic reasons, nine out of ten married women in the city habitually wore black.
The tea arrived, and as soon as the waitress had departed Sylvie began to speak. ‘My mam knows I’m expecting a baby. It wasn’t so much my shape as – as because she guessed. She watched me wash the morning after I’d fallen in the Mersey and instead of pulling my nightdress off and getting on with it I – I sort of dabbled around. Then she asked me outright. I tried lying but me heart wasn’t in it, and anyway it’s a good job she does know, because she’ll help me, though only on certain conditions.’
‘What conditions?’ Brendan asked suspiciously. He wondered whether the old lady might imagine Sylvie’s lover to be a rich man who could hand over money in exchange for her silence, but Sylvie soon disabused him on that score.
‘She agrees that I must leave Becky behind, though I still hate the thought of doing that. But she says it wouldn’t be right to involve the child in deceit, and besides you couldn’t expect her not to mention that she had a baby brother or sister when we came back to Liverpool, which would put the fat in the fire and no mistake.’
Brendan laughed. ‘You’re right there,’ he agreed. ‘Any more conditions? From what you’ve told me, your mother is a sensible woman with her head screwed on the right way, and it’s grand that she means to help us.
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