Little Girl Lost by Katie Flynn Read Free Book Online

her head and had a nice strip-down wash, but she felt it would be unwise in her present condition. Speaking casually, she said: ‘It were a scuffer actually, though he weren’t in uniform. He were ever so nice, real fatherly. He wanted to knock the Dugdales up so’s they could make sure I hadn’t broken nothing, but I wasn’t having that. So he just said I should call a doctor if I felt poorly later, and went off home.’
    Her mother nodded. ‘Aye, that sounds reasonable,’ she said, and Sylvie realised, with a stab of dismay, that her mother did not believe her story but would go along with it. And it isn’t so far from the truth, Sylvie thought resentfully, soaping her old flannel and beginning to wash her neck and face vigorously. I wonder why she doesn’t believe me, though? I’m sure I sounded as convincing as anything.
    Her face was covered with suds and she was in no position to say much when her mother suddenly spoke. ‘You and Annie, you ain’t a bit alike to look at; Annie being brown-haired and brown-eyed, and pretty tall and hefty, like meself. But one thing you do have in common: when you’re tellin’ your old mam a story – a lie, that is – a special sort of tone comes into your voice. Oh aye, I always know when you or our Annie is letting her imagination run away wi’ her.’ She clucked impatiently. ‘Tek off that bleedin’ nightie and have a good strip-down wash, ’cos you’re streaked with mud, you know, and it won’t do for the old lady to start asking questions.’ Her mother always referred to Mrs Dugdale – though not in her hearing – as the old lady, despite the fact that they were almost of an age.
    Sylvie rinsed the soap off her face and neck, then turned to glare at her mother, now seated comfortably on the bed and staring at her with a very odd sort of look. ‘Haven’t you got any work to do, Mam?’ she said, trying to sound friendly but hearing the querulousness creep into her voice without much surprise. Aggravating old devil! Why on earth was she hanging around up here when she doubtless had a thousand tasks awaiting her attention downstairs?
    ‘Oh aye, but I can spare you five minutes,’ her mother said. ‘Unless you don’t want to take off your nightgown in front of your old mother? If so, of course, I’d best be off.’
    Sylvie felt the heat creep up her neck and invade her face, and guessed she was as scarlet as a beetroot. She was beginning to say, frostily, that it was all the same to her if her mother had time to spare but that on such a busy day, with the funeral in a few hours, she would have thought . . . when she was rudely interrupted.
    ‘No need to get naggy at your old mother just because you’re in the family way,’ Mrs Davies said. ‘An’ no need to tell me it ain’t Len’s ’cos though I’m no professor I can still put two ’n’ two together ’n’ make four. You’d best get round to Mrs Grundy what lives in Nightingale Court; she helps young gels in trouble, or so I’ve heard.’
    Sylvie stared, round-eyed, at this astonishing parent of hers, then pulled herself together. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said briskly. ‘Besides, old Ma Grundy kills people, or so the talk in the bar goes.’
    ‘Len’ll kill you when he gets out of jug if he finds you’ve been carryin’ on wi’ that Robbie Wentworth,’ her mother pointed out. ‘I blame meself, though I’m sure I done me best to bring you up decent, but it’s a bit late to start layin’ blame. First it were Len takin’ you down the jigger so’s there weren’t no choice but for you to marry him, and now it’s young Wentworth. Told ’im yet?’
    Sylvie was about to reply when she heard a faint hail from below. Hastily, she tore off her nightgown and began to soap off the mud from last night’s adventure. ‘I’ve not seen Robbie for ages, but you’re right, of course, I am in a spot of trouble,’ she said. ‘There is a way out, though, and now I come to