Free The September Girls by Maureen Lee Page B

alive!’
    ‘Our Paddy had to die to make us lucky, Bren.’ He spoke bitterly. ‘Don’t ever forget that.’
    ‘You know I never will,’ she said quickly, although she had, if only for a second or two. ‘We’ll ask the fathers at St Vincent de Paul’s to say a Mass for him on Christmas Day.’ She stroked his lean neck. ‘Come back to bed, darlin’. Let’s go back to where we were before we found that package in the mattress.’
    Later, when she was back in her own bed listening to Cara’s easy breathing - her cough had disappeared since leaving the cellar - Brenna began to make a list of the things she would buy. The whole family would be kitted out with new clothes - Nancy had told her about a place called Paddy’s Market where decent clobber could be had for next to nothing. She’d get a piece of ham for Christmas dinner and make a proper pudding for afterwards, buy Fergus and Tyrone a toy each: one of those cars that you wound up with a key and went by themselves, a rattle for Cara, a nice warm muffler for Colm, something for Nancy - a book, perhaps, one with big, long words that she’d love. And a little gift for Mr Allardyce, whom she’d never met, but couldn’t be nearly as horrid as Nancy had painted him.
    Thanks to Mr Allardyce, Paddy and especially the Blessed Virgin, the Caffreys would have the merriest Christmas that anyone in Liverpool had ever known. Not only that, when it was over, they’d give Paddy the proper burial he truly deserved.
    Smiling, Brenna fell asleep.

Chapter 3
    A cloud shaped like an old, creased dog crawled across the sky, slithering awkwardly in and out of the window frame. Eleanor Allardyce craned her head and watched the fluffy white tail disappear, wondering why church bells were ringing and why no sound came of the builders working on the site of the big cathedral that was being erected less than a hundred yards away, the thick walls looming over the yard at the back of the house. She remembered then that it was Christmas Day and a knot of something unpleasant formed in her throat when she realized Marcus would be home.
    Since last week, she’d felt well enough to leave her bed for a few hours each day, but always went back before Marcus returned. ‘I’ve done too much,’ she would claim to Nurse Hutton. It meant she would see him for just a few minutes when he poked his head around the door to ask how she was. He only did it for propriety’s sake, knowing Nurse Hutton would be there, fussing around. The same reason forced him to be polite, although she was aware of the disdain in his eyes.
    Her bed had become a sanctuary of sorts since she’d had Sybil - three months ago tomorrow, she recalled with a sigh - but she couldn’t stay for ever. The time had come to resume control of the household - and subject herself to the lash of her husband’s cruel tongue. Anyway, Marcus aside, she was bored beyond belief and sick to death of the company of Nurse Hutton and the various night nurses who spoke to her in the same tone as they did to Sybil, as if she were a baby.
    Oh, for a walk into town, a stroll around the shops, to look at clothes and treat herself to a leisurely coffee in Frederick & Hughes, her favourite store. She closed her eyes and visualized the gracious restaurant with its sparkling chandeliers and stained-glass windows, the clink of china, the scrape of cutlery and, best of all, the pianist attired in evening dress playing tunes from the latest shows on the white grand piano.
    For years now, it was the only thing she enjoyed: shopping, getting away from the house. Marcus told her she was extravagant: he resented the fact that she had her own money, that that part of her life wasn’t under his control, but Mummy had left her a huge sum when she died and it was kept in her own, private account. A few times Marcus had insisted it be transferred to his, but she’d adamantly refused. She shuddered, recalling how cross he’d been.
    There were noises outside