“Catherine, stop dawdling. The whistle’ll blow soon.”
Quickly grabbing her find, she ran into the yard slamming the gate closed.

                        ###

         “Are there more biscuits, Jane? A chocolate one would be nice. Or those nice ones Sarah Mathers serves with icing from Dupree’s?”
          “We haven’t got chocolate, Bess. We can’t afford Dupree’s. Sarah Mathers has been dead for ten years.”
          “Poor dear. I’ll miss her.”
          “Auntie Bess, I’ll eat your biscuit. I don’t mind if it’s not chocolate.”
          “Cuz you are a wee piggy, Cath.”
          “Am not, Jasper.”
          “Children. No one eats Bess’ biscuit. More tea, Harold?”

          Catherine’s father wiped his mouth quickly, his mustache wet and glistening in the feeble light hanging over the table.
          He shook his head as he pushed his chair back and stood. “No. Whistle’s ‘bout to blow. Don’t waste the gaslight now.”
          “Ta, Harold.”
           Harold bent and kissed his wife absently, thinking about Digger’s whiskey hidden in an old boot in the closet behind the purser’s office. Pallister didn’t return after tea, usually. There was still half a bottle to go and a long night ahead.

         Catherine kicked her heels impatiently as she handled the doll’s arm and matchbox through the thin cotton of her dress. While Jasper went on about his mates Creeky and Richard at school, Catherine imagined what she would do with her treasures. She licked her lips. “Mum, can I be excused?”
           “Take the dishes. Jasper will wash up.”
           “Aw, Mum. I wanted to go out.”
           “Dishes first, Jasper. Go now, both of you. More tea, Bess?”
           “Yes, Mum.”  They chorused as they dragged their chairs back from the table.Bess smiled, her few teeth a crooked row of gravestones in memory of her smile.

                         ###

           Catherine teetered down the hallway to the pump behind the kitchen. The tray was heavy and Auntie Bess had placed her dishes on the very edge. They wobbled, clicking like dog toes on tiles.
           “Watch the cat, Cath.” Jasper laughed.
            “I see ‘im.” Catherine walked carefully around old Tiger and finally dropped the tray on the counter near the pump.
            “Aw, come on Cath. Help me with the suds. I got a couple of sweets in my room and I could give you one. Or I can read you more adventures of Billy Hargreaves Boy Detective.”

             The sweets were a mighty pull, and Catherine quite enjoyed being read to, but she had new treasures.

            “Can’t Jasper. Mum told me my mending has to be done, especially Da’s best socks. ‘Sides, you heard what Da said, no more gaslight.”

            Catherine dashed off to the back stairs to the attic room she and Jasper shared with their Auntie. She removed her cigar box from beneath the loose floor board under the room’s one window. Catherine only looked out of it when necessary because Jasper had pointed out to her one foggy day that it looked like Terry Gardner’s milky blind eye.

           The rain had gone to a steady drizzle, so there was little light for her to see by. She dropped her new finds in the box, moving them carefully so they did not lie on top of each other.

          “Cath? Mum says she’s taking Auntie Bess to church.” Jasper called out from the bottom of the stairs. “She’s turning off the light.”
    Mrs. Murphy thumped the ceiling with her cane.
   In the dark room, Catherine closed her cigar box and slipped it back into its hiding place.

YOUR PHOTO STORY
©
     "Little Holdings"
                                           by Sue Martin

       The sky spit rain on Catherine O’Hallaran’s faded dress as she nibbled a thumb, listening for pursuit. The gray fence at her side sagged beneath its age. Three boys soon ran past the warped wooden slats shouting; one boy dragging a stick with a loud clatter. The breath of them drifted above the fence like steam from a tired horse.

While she waited, the cobbles beneath the hem of her dress began to grow dense in color and shine in the slow rain.

“Catherine Francis! Come wash up fer tea! Yer Da is waiting.”
“Coming, Mum”.

      About to swing on the alley gate, Catherine’s eye was caught by a match box in the gravel. She snatched it up and shoved it into her pocket then paused for there by the gate post in the curl of a dried weed, lay the tiny hand and arm of a porcelain doll, streaked with soot. She tipped her head like a sparrow inspecting a bread crumb. 

2008 Sue Martin