The Girl From Paradise Alley (ARC)

  The Girl from Paradise Alley

  A heartbreaking and absolutely unforgettable page-turner set in Ireland

  Sandy Taylor

  Books By Sandy Taylor

  The Girl from Paradise Alley

  The Little Orphan Girl

  The Runaway Children

  * * *

  Brighton Girls Trilogy

  When We Danced at the End of the Pier (Book 1)

  The Girls from See Saw Lane (Book 2)

  Counting Chimneys (Book 3)

  In memory of my dearest son Bo, who loved to read my books.

  Forever in my heart.

  Fly free, my sweet boy,

  And follow the sun.

  Love Mum

  Contents

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Part II

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Part III

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Epilogue

  The Runaway Children

  Hear More From Sandy

  Books By Sandy Taylor

  A Letter From Sandy

  The Little Orphan Girl

  When We Danced at the End of the Pier

  The Girls from See Saw Lane

  Counting Chimneys

  Acknowledgements

  Part One

  One

  Ballybun, County Cork, 1924

  Me and my best friend Kitty Quinn were sitting on the graveyard wall watching Mr Hoolahan’s last journey to meet his maker. The mourners were led by Father Kelly as they followed the cart towards the poor man’s final resting place. Kitty took the little jotter out of her pocket and licked the end of the pencil.

  Me and Kitty attended as many funerals as we could and we marked them out of ten for…

  The number of mourners.

  How dignified they held themselves.

  Whether they were wearing boots or good shoes.

  How much weeping and rending of garments took place.

  The rending of garments was my idea; I thought it sounded desperate and sort of romantic. Kitty wanted to add ‘throwing themselves on the coffin’, but I thought that was a bit overdramatic for Ballybun.

  ‘They’re all wearing clodhopping boots,’ said Kitty, screwing up her nose.

  ‘Except Mrs Hoolahan,’ I said. ‘She’s still got her slippers on.’

  ‘That’ll be because of the chilblains,’ said Kitty. ‘She’s a martyr to them.’

  Mr Hoolahan was a miserable old man who’d done very little good in his life apart from adding to the population of Ballybun by producing thirteen children.

  ‘Is Teddy over from America?’ I said, scanning the line of mourners.

  ‘I can’t see him,’ said Kitty, straining her neck to see over the crowd of people.

  ‘That’s a shame,’ I said. ‘It would have added some dignity to the proceedings if he’d shown up.’

  ‘A mark of respect,’ nodded Kitty, writing down ‘Teddy’ then crossing a line through his name.

  We sat on the wall until the coffin was lowered down into the ground.

  ‘Can you hear any wailing?’ I said.

  ‘Not a squeak,’ said Kitty, ‘and definitely no rending. I think it’s time we got rid of the rending bit, Nora.’

  ‘You might be right; I think we’d need to go into Cork City for that.’

  ‘They might even throw themselves on the coffin in Cork City,’ said Kitty, with a dreamy look on her face.

  ‘Now, wouldn’t that be the pinnacle of our funeral watching?’

  ‘Jesus, Nora, what sort of word is that?’

  ‘It means the height of stuff.’

  ‘Where did you learn a word like that?’

  ‘From Grandad Doyle. He’s a fierce reader, Kitty, and he gives me a new word every week.’

  ‘What other words do you know?’

  ‘Well, last week he gave me “grandeur”.’

  ‘What in all that’s holy does that mean?’

  ‘I think it means posh.’

  Kitty chewed the end of the pencil. ‘Like the Honourables up on the hill?’

  ‘Exactly,’ I said.

  We jumped down from the wall and watched the mourners drift away from the graveside. Me and Kitty made the sign of the cross as they passed us. Mr Hoolahan might have been a miserable old sod but in death he deserved a bit of respect.

  ‘How many points, Kitty?’ I said.

  ‘Only two, it was a poor turnout and not one to be remembered.’

  ‘What was the two for?’

  ‘Biddy Quirk was carrying her good handbag.’

  I nodded. ‘That was worth a two alright, and didn’t I see Patricia Hoolahan with a ribbon in her hair?’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘I did, and it was black. I thought that was very dignified.’

  Kitty crossed out the number TWO and wrote THREE in its place.

  We walked across to the grave and watched Mr Dunne and Dooney the Unfortunate shovelling dirt onto the coffin.

  ‘It makes a grand sound, doesn’t it, Mr Dunne?’ said Kitty, staring down into the hole.

  ‘It does, Kitty, I always think there’s a feeling of finality about it.’

  ‘Well, we’ll leave you to your business,’ I said. ‘Goodbye, Mr Dunne, goodbye, Dooney.’

  We started to walk towards the gate when Kitty stopped and stared at me.

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘I have something to tell you, Nora.’

  ‘That sounds serious.’

  ‘Not so much serious as—’

  ‘Thought-provoking?’ I said.

  ‘Grandad Doyle?’

  ‘The very man. It means, something that is yet to come, something mysterious.’

  ‘I think it could be all those things.’

  ‘Tell me then.’

  We sat on the wall and I waited for Kitty to speak.

  ‘Have you ever been to Bretton Hall, Nora?’ asked Kitty.

  ‘I’m not allowed, my mammy says I’m not to go near the place.’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I’m guessing that something bad happened when she worked there. Anyway, I’m not to go there. Why? Have you?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Are you intending to then?’

  ‘If I tell you something, you won’t tell a living soul, will you?’

  ‘I won’t even tell a dead one, Kitty.’

  ‘I’ve found a way in.’

  ‘Into
the Hall?’

  ‘Not the Hall itself, but I’ve found a way into the gardens. There’s a broken-down bit of fence round the back that looks big enough to squeeze through.’

  ‘And how did you discover that?’

  ‘I was on my way to see my Aunty Pat when a fox darted out in front of me. It scared the bejeebers out of me, Nora.’

  ‘It would scare the bejeebers out of me too, Kitty, but sure, he’s one of God’s creatures and has as much right to be going about his business as anyone.’

  ‘You’re right, he has. Anyway, I investigated where he’d come from and that’s when I saw the opening. What do you think?’

  ‘What do I think about what?’

  ‘Will we see if we can get in?’

  ‘I just told you I’m not allowed anywhere near Bretton Hall.’

  ‘Did your mammy say anything about the garden though?’

  I thought about it. ‘I don’t suppose she thought she had to, Kitty.’

  ‘We could just take a peek,’ said Kitty. ‘What harm can a peek do?’

  I had a mind to see the gardens of Bretton Hall as much as Kitty did. Surely Mammy wouldn’t mind me seeing the gardens? ‘Alright, we’ll take a peek,’ I said, ‘but not today. If I’m to call in at the cottage to see Annie, I’ll be late for my tea.’

  ‘Tomorrow then?’

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Tomorrow.’

  Two

  I felt bad about not telling Mammy that I was going to Bretton Hall with Kitty, but I had a fierce mind to go and, as Kitty had said, she hadn’t mentioned the gardens.

  Me and Kitty had just turned thirteen. Kitty was beautiful; she had black hair, pale skin and bright blue eyes. The Irish seemed to fall into two categories. Some had red hair and freckles and others, like Kitty, were blessed with exotic looks. Grandad Doyle said that was on account of the Spanish, who had invaded Ireland’s shores and left behind them a whole pile of dark-haired children. I didn’t fall into either of these two types, for my hair was brown and curly and I looked like no one else in my family. We went to school at the Presentation Convent and we were taught our lessons by Sister Mary Immaculata, who was very beautiful indeed. No one knew what colour hair she had, because of the black and white wimple she wore, but I had a feeling that she was dark-haired like Kitty, for her skin was like alabaster and her eyes were blue. She swept through the corridors, her black veil flying behind her like one of God’s angels.

  ‘Do you think she’s an angel, Kitty?’ I said, as we were walking towards our classroom the next morning.

  Kitty was about to answer when Orla Mullan, who was walking behind us, started laughing.

  ‘Jesus, aren’t you a couple of eejits though,’ she sneered.

  ‘What are you blathering on about, Orla Mullan?’

  ‘You’re eejits if you believe in angels,’ said Orla. ‘Don’t you know it’s all just a fairy tale?’

  ‘May the devil cut your tongue out, Orla Mullan,’ shouted Kitty. ‘It’s you that’s the eejit, for everyone knows that we all have a guardian angel looking down on us. Nora even knows the name of hers, don’t you, Nora?’

  ‘I do,’ I said. ‘And she’s called Nora Foley and she’s my namesake, so stick that up your bum.’

  Orla was going red in the face. ‘I’m going to tell Sister what you said.’

  ‘And we’ll tell her that you don’t believe in God’s holy angels and Father Kelly will read your name out at Mass on Sunday and shame your whole family,’ I said.

  That shut her up and she flounced away down the corridor.

  ‘I think we won that argument,’ said Kitty, ‘but you’ll have to confess the bum word to Father Kelly when you make your next confession.’

  ‘It was worth it,’ I said, grinning. ‘And when I explain the circumstances, I’m sure he’ll forgive me.’

  ‘He’s bound to,’ said Kitty. ‘You’ll probably just get the one Hail Mary for your penance.’

  I was thinking that Orla Mullan was probably still put out about the day before, when we’d had a lesson about the meanings of our names. Mine wasn’t too bad – Doyle meant ‘dark foreigner’, which I thought sounded romantic. Kitty was delighted when Sister Immaculata said that Quinn meant ‘wisdom’. But poor Orla Mullan was only mortified when Sister announced that Mullan meant ‘bald’. We all had a great laugh at Orla’s expense and were told off for being unkind. The biggest surprise was when we learned that the name MacDermott meant ‘free from jealousy’, when everyone knew that Brigid MacDermott was so jealous that she begrudged you your breath.

  The afternoon dragged; all I could think of was sneaking into the gardens of Bretton Hall. I couldn’t even eat my potatoes at lunchtime.

  ‘You have to eat them,’ said Kitty. ‘My daddy’s daddy lived through the Great Famine and it’s a sin in our house to waste a potato, unless you’re stricken down by some desperate illness. We all eat our potatoes and we give the skins to Henry.’

  Henry was the Quinns’ old pig, who lived his life very happily snorting about in their bit of a yard behind the cottage.

  ‘Why do you have a pig?’ I said. ‘He’s a grand feller alright but as my Grandad Doyle says, he’s neither use nor ornament.’

  ‘Daddy bought him as a wee small one, from a tinker who was passing through the town. The idea was to slaughter him and make him into rashers of bacon but little Breda got terrible attached to him and cried for a week and called Daddy a murderer, so he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He’s like one of the family now and sure, he does no harm to anyone, even though he smells like shite when the weather gets hot.’

  When the bell went for home time, me and Kitty grabbed our coats and raced through the town to Kitty’s house.

  ‘May God bless all in this house,’ we chorused, as we dipped our fingers in the holy water font.

  ‘Amen,’ said Mrs Quinn, smiling at us. ‘Are you stopping for your dinner, Nora?’ she said, kissing the top of baby Sean’s fat little head and placing him in a basket by the fire.

  ‘Just a sip of tea,’ I said. ‘Me and Kitty have a mind to go out the Strand.’

  ‘Can I come with you?’ asked Breda, crawling out from under the table.

  ‘No, you can’t,’ said Kitty. ‘Tell her, Mammy, she can’t come with us.’

  ‘Sure, why not?’ asked Mrs Quinn.

  ‘Because she can’t keep up,’ said Kitty.

  ‘I can,’ said Breda. ‘Can’t I, Mammy? I can keep up.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what, Breda,’ I said. ‘Next time we go out the Strand you can come with us and we’ll walk all the way and buy you a grand ice cream from Minnie’s.’

  ‘Okay so,’ said Breda, crawling back under the table.

  ‘I don’t know why you don’t put her bed under there, Mammy,’ said Kitty. ‘She’s under there more than she’s in the room.’

  ‘I like it under here,’ said Breda from under the table.

  ‘She likes it under there,’ said Mrs Quinn, smiling.

  I drank the tea, and we headed out towards the Strand. There was a cold wind blowing in off the sea, but the blood was pumping through my veins from all the running and I was as warm as toast. As we neared Bretton Hall, Kitty stopped.

  ‘It’s around here somewhere,’ she said.

  We walked along by the fence, looking for the broken bit.

  ‘This is it,’ said Kitty.

  ‘What if someone sees us?’ I said, looking around.

  ‘Stop your worrying,’ said Kitty. ‘Okay, I’ll go first.’

  I watched as Kitty disappeared through the gap in the fence and I had no choice but to follow her.

  ‘Jesus, it’s dark in here,’ she said.

  Kitty was right: it was black as night, with tall trees blocking out the light. A small grey squirrel stared at us for a moment then raced up a tree. It stopped halfway, then stared at us again, as if to say, ‘What are you doing here?’ I was wondering that myself and I was all for turning back. I knew I shouldn’t be here; I knew
I was going against Mammy’s wishes and I felt guilty, but there was a little bit of me that was excited.

  We got down on our hands and knees and pushed through the thick brambles.

  ‘Jesus, my knees are ruined,’ cried Kitty.

  ‘So are mine,’ I said, pulling brambles out of my good coat. ‘Mammy’s going to go mad when she sees the state of me.’

  ‘Your mammy never goes mad about anything, Nora, but mine’s going to kill me.’

  ‘She is not, but your father might.’

  ‘Thanks, Nora Doyle, I needed to hear that.’

  ‘You are very welcome, Kitty Quinn.’ I grinned into the darkness.

  * * *

  After much scrambling about, we came out into the daylight and there in front of us was Bretton Hall, perched on the top of the sweeping lawns. I thought it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. It dazzled in the bright sunshine, making it look as though the bricks were made of gold.

  I stared up at the house, at the rows of windows and the grand steps leading up to the front door.

  ‘Isn’t it mighty, Nora?’ whispered Kitty.

  But I didn’t answer her. I suddenly wanted to be alone. It was as if this moment was mine alone and too precious to be shared with anyone, even with my good friend Kitty. As I gazed up at the house, I wondered what it would be like to live in such a place. I knew it would be grand – grander than any house I had ever been in – but I could imagine it as if I’d already been inside those rooms. There would be a sweeping staircase and a drawing room. The bed would have white sheets and plump pillows and a quilt and when you stepped out of bed, your bare feet would sink into a soft rug. There would be long drapes at the windows and when you drew them back, you would look out onto the beautiful grounds. Someone would cook your meals and launder your clothes; you wouldn’t have to lift a finger for yourself, it would all be done for you without even asking. I loved Paradise Alley and the Grey House and had no desire to live anywhere else, but I couldn’t help imagining what that other life would be like.