the warm glow that the brandy induced.
‘That’s brought the colour back to your cheeks anyway,’ Minnie O’Rourke told her. ‘Where are you bound for?’
‘Birmingham,’ Maeve said. ‘To my uncle’s place.’
‘Well, isn’t that good news?’ Minnie exclaimed. ‘We’re going to Birmingham too. We have a fine house in Erdington. You’d best come along with us. It’s desperate altogether travelling on your own.’
And Maeve was glad to have their company. It might stop her feeling fearful that she was making some dreadful mistake. She was also anxious to learn as much as she could about the city she was going to.
‘Are you having a holiday?’ Minnie asked.
‘No,’ Maeve said. ‘I’m staying there. My uncle has got me a job in a café, near a place called Aston Cross.’
‘My! You’re lucky,’ Minnie said, ‘for God knows, jobs are few and far between at the moment, with the slump after the war, you know?’ Without waiting for a reply she went on, ‘My Sean had to have his gaffer’s word that he’d have a job to go back to, or we wouldn’t have been able to go to the funeral at all. Even then we could only take three days. His sisters wanted him to take three or four weeks, but we daren’t, and he’s a skilled man. He works in the brass industry.’
Maeve made no reply to this, for she was suddenly unaccountably weary and her head swam with the unaccustomed brandy on her empty and very sore stomach.
‘Still and all, you have a job to go to, that’s something,’ Minnie went on.
‘He knows the owner of the place,’ Maeve said.
‘That would be the way of it, right enough,’ Minnie said. ‘As I always say, God’s good.’
Maeve opened her mouth to make some sort of reply, but all that came out was a large yawn.
‘My, my,’ said Minnie. ‘You’re dead beat, so you are, and no wonder after you being so sick and all. Lie yourself down across the cases and have a wee sleep, why don’t you?’
What a relief it was, Maeve found, to lay her swimming head down, even across the lumpy hard cases, and pull up her legs to ease the cramps and close her eyes to ease the throbbing pain in her head. In minutes she was fast asleep.
She slept till the ferry docked. The O’Rourkes shook her awake and took her in hand, and she shambled behind them in the damp rain-soaked air, pushing her case before her as people thronged the decks in the rush to embark. They were waved through the customs sheds and into the noisy station in Liverpool that was teeming with people. Not that Maeve saw much of it, for the train was in and the O’Rourkes, seasoned travellers that they were, steered Maeve quickly through the crowds and on to the train to make sure of a seat, and Maeve was glad they had when she saw many passengers filling the corridors later, sitting astride their cases.
She was glad that on dry land once more she was feeling much better and able to face the picnic her mother had packed with such loving care early that morning. She shared it with Sean and Minnie O’Rourke while she plied them with questions about the city she was to live in. And as the train chugged its way southwards, they told her of Birmingham’s cinemas and dance halls, which opened all year round. They described the music halls and the Bull Ring, a huge shopping centre where great entertainment could be had, they said, on a Saturday night. Maeve was no longer nervous; instead she was in a fever of excitement to get to her uncle’s house and begin her job. Then, she was sure, her life would take an up-turn.
When Maeve and the O’Rourkes finally alighted at New Street station, Maeve wondered if she’d ever find her uncle in such a loud and busy place. All around her was the noise of people. Porters pushing laden trolleys were yelling out warning to anyone in their way, and at a newsstand, a vendor shouted his wares, while beside her the gigantic train was giving little pants of steam, as if it were an untamed animal out of breath.
Her Uncle Michael told her afterwards he’d have recognised her anywhere from the one photograph she’d ever had taken, which she’d sent to him. He’d said the photo didn’t do her justice and he’d commented on how like his sister Annie Maeve was. He could remember how stunning his sister had been at Maeve’s age, and how she’d had the pick of the local suitors. He could see that Maeve had the same-shape face with the high cheekbones, blue eyes, straight nose and full mouth. They even had the same way of holding their heads and once had had the same-colour hair, but Maeve’s mother’s blonde locks were now peppered with grey. She wore it in a bun on the back of her neck and for the journey Maeve had copied her, feeling the style made her look more adult.
Maeve was pleased and relieved at her uncle’s warm greeting. He pushed her extended hand aside and enveloped her in a big hug. His coat was scratchy and smelt of greasy dirt with a hint of tobacco, but none of that mattered. Maeve felt she was with one of her own, and tears of exhaustion and emotion welled up in her eyes. Not that she let them fall. This was her great adventure just beginning – no time for crying and carrying on, she told herself sternly.
She wiped her eyes surreptitiously and turned to the O’Rourkes, who were looking on in satisfaction at the respectable uncle, whom they thought a very suitable man indeed to look after the young Maeve Brannigan.
Michael shook hands with the two people that his niece had introduced him to, and thanked them sincerely for keeping her company. Maeve felt sorry to see them go, but had little time to dwell on it. Her uncle picked up her case and, holding her by the arm, he led her from the station.
She was shocked at the mean little streets, the houses pushed together, that her uncle took her through, after they’d alighted from the clanking swaying tram, which had frightened the life out of her. It wasn’t at all what she’d expected. They alighted at a road called Bristol Street and her uncle turned from there into Belgrave Road and then into Varna Road, which ran off it.
‘Here we are,’ he said suddenly, stopping outside one of the doorways. ‘Come away in and meet the family.’
Aunt Agnes, Michael’s wife, had once been a pretty girl. She still had classic good looks, high cheekbones like Maeve’s own, and deep-set dark brown eyes, with a well-formed nose and a full sensual mouth, and her brown hair fell in natural waves to her shoulders. But Agnes had always been easily offended and upset, and over the years her mouth had become petulant and surly. There was a hard glint in her beautiful eyes, as she’d wanted this niece of her husband’s in her home less than she wanted to fly to the moon.
Maeve smiled, but the words of gratitude that sprang to her lips were stilled by the cold stare and compressed lips of her aunt. Behind her, her uncle was bustling as, she was to learn, he did all the time he was in the presence of his wife. He rubbed his hands together as if he was going to receive a rare and wonderful gift as he said, ‘Aggie, Agnes, this is Maeve.’ As if, Maeve thought, she could be anyone else.
Agnes made no response whatsoever. Afterwards, Maeve was to think the insult had been as bad as if she’d spat on her or ordered her from the house. Suddenly the room seemed to grow chilly. Maeve didn’t know how to respond, and neither did her uncle, she realised. He turned his attention to the two children who were sitting playing snap on the rug placed in front of the hearth.
‘Away out of that, Billy and Jane. Have you not a word of welcome for your cousin?’
The children got to their feet reluctantly. They knew the young girl before them was the one their parents had argued long and hard about. In that house, it was often
