Free Mother of Pearl by Mary Morrissy Page B

solemnly. She was the only one to meet Irene’s eye. For a brief, mad, moment she considered lifting the child out, so grateful was she for this trusting gaze. She could dance the baby in her arms as she had seen other women do quite naturally. As she stood there a lorry rattled past with three boys hanging from the back.
    â€˜Scut behind, Mister!’ someone shouted out.
    Startled, Irene turned around thinking that she would find a grimy child pointing a finger at her. Then she checked herself; she had done nothing. Yet. The lorry screeched to a halt and a beefy driver leant out the window. The boys leapt off nimbly and scattered. The driver lumbered from his cab and made a vain attempt to chase them. Then he gave up and with a loud curse and a fist waved indiscriminately in the air, he heaved himself aboard the cab and drove off. Though Irene had stood transfixed, the incident had barely caused a ripple on the street. She found herself gripping the handle of the pram. And then she noticed with relief that the baby was strapped in with a pair of reins. She was safe. Quite safe.
    Irene turned back. From the brown hallways of the tenements she could hear the clangour of plumbing and the slop of laundry in tin baths. At the doorways young women gathered, slovenly and insolent to Irene’s eye. ‘Holy Jesus …’ she heard one swear. Another broad-beamed, plump of breast and heavily pregnant, was confiding mirthfully: ‘Gene only has to
look
at me, know what I mean?’
    â€˜Pius?’ a red-haired woman roared, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘Pius!’ A whey-faced toddler looked up from the gutter.
    Irene hurried on glad that
her
child was not going to be brought up here.

    Â 
    IF MICHAEL CARPENTER had not hanged himself, Mrs Blessed might have made the connection between the Baby Spain kidnap and Mrs North but the violence perpetrated in the Four Provinces drove all else from her mind. She had only noticed something was amiss when the top bathroom was engaged for over an hour, a gross violation of the house rules. It was a Saturday morning. She allowed her regulars to sleep in at the weekends if they were prepared to forgo breakfast. Usually it was no sacrifice; sore heads were the order of the day. She didn’t reach the top of the house until ten forty-five (that’s how she put it when the police asked; it sounded more official that way and also gave the impression that she timed her household chores). The bathroom door was locked. She knocked and tried the handle.
    â€˜Anyone in there? Hello?’
    There was no response.
    â€˜Hello?’ she ventured again.
    The lock had always been faulty; there had been trouble with it before. All it had taken then was a quick jiggle of the knob. Mrs Blessed tried again. Long years as a landlady had sharpened her instinct for trouble; she knew there was somebody in there, but
who
she could not work out. She made her way downstairs; she would check the register. By a process of elimination she could work it out. On the landing below she bumped into the commercial traveller in number six. She had a soft spot for him. He had been staying at the Four Provinces on and off for years. A real card, he was, though fond of a drop. He looked a bit rough this morning. When this mess was sorted out she would take him into the kitchen and give him a feed.
    â€˜What’s the problem, Mrs B?’ he asked noticing her air of preoccupation.
    â€˜Top bathroom. Locked or stuck, I don’t know which.’
    â€˜Let me take a look at it.’
    He bounded up the stairs two at a time. She heard him put his shoulder to the door. There was a sharp splintering of glass as he smashed in one of the frosted glass panels.
    â€˜Holy Jesus,’ she heard him gasp.
    She hurried up the stairs, imagining a domestic disaster, a burst pipe or the bath overflowing. She always felt a mild panic about these alarums and the acute absence of a man about the