by Carol Rivers
Also the question of where they would live had not yet been settled. The Thornes kept a general store in Poplar. Don had suggested that, after they were married, Birdie give up her dressmaking and assist Lydia and Aggie in the shop. But try as she may, Birdie couldn’t fancy serving customers with such unromantic things as strong-smelling cheese and bacon and Lifebuoy soap and pickles. Neither could she warm much to Lydia, who counted every penny taken, twice over. Little James was a darling boy, the very image of his dead father, Stephen. But Lydia and Aggie watched over him like hawks.
Birdie sighed again. She would much rather they lived here, in March Street, so she could continue with her business and keep an eye on her father and brother. Besides, there was far more space in the tall Victorian building she had grown up in. Granted, the place was considerably dilapidated and smoke-blackened, but a few repairs here and there would soon put things right.
Her mind preoccupied with the problem, Birdie hurried downstairs. In the parlour, she cast a critical eye over the high, plaster-peeling ceilings and shabby walls. If only she could make it a little more enticing, then surely Don would see her point of view? Since Frank had been conscripted in 1916, the house had gone slowly downhill.
New curtains were badly needed for the sash windows. The big dresser required more than one coat of polish, and was that a crack just beginning over the upright piano? And what more mending could she do to the carpet that was so threadbare you could see the lines of the bare boards beneath? But money was scarce, and she began to consider how she would stretch her income this week. A full two-and-sixpence was coming her way tomorrow, when the ladies of Hailing House were to collect the coat and two dresses. Then there was the four-and-six due from their lodger, Harry Chambers. All in all, with the three shillings Pat would provide from his wage, she would have enough for the rent and a shilling spare for the gas. This still left the larder, but somehow she would make ends meet.
Just then, Wilfred Connor walked in. Dressed in his crumpled Sunday suit and best shirt, he closed the door quietly behind him. ‘What’s up with the young ’un, lass? Run past me as though he had a match under his arse.’ Heavy brows creased into a bushy grey curve as he stood warming his hands over the fire.
‘He’s got an oiling job to do,’ Birdie explained, although through the window she had just seen Pat scoot off on his bicycle to see Willie Mason. ‘For his rounds tomorrow.’
‘Let’s hope that job don’t go to his head,’ muttered Wilfred as the wheeze from his chest erupted and the rough rasp followed.
‘Sit down, Dad. I’ll bring your medicine.’
‘Fat lot of good it’ll do an’ all,’ coughed Wilfred, collapsing in the chair. ‘I’d be better off going down the Quarry for me pint.’
Birdie didn’t bother to reply but went to the scullery, where a strong smell of disinfectant clung to the walls, the only deterrent to the scuttling roaches.
Birdie took the bottle of J Collis Browne’s Mixture from the shelf and Wilfred frowned in distaste as he swallowed the unpleasant dose. At fifty-two years of age, too old to serve in the forces and now suffering with his health, her father was nevertheless a proud man. So she was not in the least surprised at his reply.
‘Thanks, ducks. Climbed out of bed the wrong side this morning. When I get me breath back, I’ll go out and give the backyard a sweep.’
Birdie knew that climbing out of bed the wrong side had nothing to do with the coughing fit. And despite him being determined to keep active, he was often thwarted in his efforts, for the cold winter months had brought him very low. After years of inhaling the gases from the chemical factory where he’d worked, he was now retired, the poisonous fumes having taken their toll.
‘So when is Donald calling?’ he managed to ask.
‘Pat saw him walking Aggie and Lydia to church. So it’ll not be till this afternoon.’
‘A good man to do his best by them women. You’ll do well as his wife, Brigid. Just as long as you settle the matter of your children being raised as regular Catholics.’
Birdie was tempted to say that she’d never be married at all if children were to be taken into consideration. She knew it would not please Aggie one bit to see her grandchildren on their knees to the Virgin Mary.
‘A sad pity that Don’s father had to die last year,’ Wilfred continued, coughing slightly. ‘And Don then having to leave a good job like he had on the railways and go into the business. Had he lived, Ted Thorne would have been proud of his two sons. Both the one that lived and the other that died.’ Wilfred shook his head gloomily. ‘I only wish I could boast pride of me own elder son.’
Birdie’s cheeks flushed. She hated it when their father spoke about Frank in this way. ‘We don’t know exactly what happened,’ she protested. ‘The Army never gave us a chance to see Frank.’
‘What are you saying, Brigid?’ Wilfred’s mouth tightened as he looked up.
‘It’s just that we ain’t heard his side of—’
‘I’d have any man abide by the laws of his country,’ Wilfred cut in angrily. ‘There is no excuse for disappearing from the battlefield and turning up after the action is over!’
‘But, Dad, our Frank—’
‘Not another word, girl!’ shouted her father, beginning to cough and going red in the face.
Birdie patted his back, demanding of herself why she couldn’t keep a still tongue in her head for once. Hadn’t she only just a minute ago warned Pat to do the same? Sure, she had her own fierce opinion on men being needlessly slaughtered in their thousands, but this wasn’t the time to voice it.
‘Don’t fuss, leave me be.’ Breathless and gasping, Wilfred turned away.
Silently Birdie sank to her knees and shovelled the last of the coal on the fire. The scuttle was empty and very little coal was left. Just as she picked up the bellows to encourage them to light, her father sat forward, his body and face contorting as he coughed.
‘Dad, are you all right?’
Wilfred didn’t seem to hear her as he coughed and gasped for breath, his eyes staring blindly into space. She dropped the bellows and went to him. A trail of spit rolled out from his mouth and Birdie gasped as he twisted this way and that, wrestling himself from her grasp. She ran outside in the hope that Pat was within calling distance, but neither her brother nor his bicycle were to be seen. Her heart pounding in fright, she rushed back, only to find that her father had collapsed on the floor.
Chapter 2
Birdie had never seen her father so ill. He lay shaking and jerking, with his eyes rolling upward.
‘Dad, what’s wrong?’ she cried, trying to make him hear her. But there was no response as he continued to choke and splutter, his face deathly pale. What was she to do? If she ran for the doctor, she would have to leave him alone. Birdie knew she must stay close, yet she had no power to help him.
‘Birdie? What’s going on?’
She looked up to see the tall lean figure of Harry Chambers, their lodger. ‘Oh, thank God you’ve come home, Harry!’ she blurted as he hurried from the passage and kneeled beside her. ‘Dad’s taken a turn and I can’t rouse him . . . oh, Harry, what shall I do?’
Harry swept off his cloth cap and threw it aside, then unslung his work-bag from his shoulder. ‘When did this happen?’ he asked, his weather-beaten brow furrowed in concern.
‘A few moments ago . . . he began coughing and choking and looking all queer. So I called for Pat outside but he’d gone. And when I came back Dad was—’
‘Steady now, girl, let’s have a look at him.’
Gently, he lifted Wilfred’s head and slipped a cushion beneath. For a moment Wilfred’s eyes opened wide, as if in recognition, and Birdie called his name, hoping he might speak. But very soon he began to twist and turn again despite Harry’s firm restraint.
‘What’s wrong with him, Harry? Why is he acting like this? I’d only just given him his medicine and he started to cough, but not normal like. I tried to help him but it was as though he
didn’t hear or see me.’
‘It looks like a seizure,’ Harry muttered as he held Wilfred’s arms. ‘I’ve seen them before, in the army.’
‘A seizure? But why?’ Birdie asked in distress.
‘I can’t say; I’m no medical man,’ Harry shrugged. ‘But one thing I do know is we must stop him from harming himself.’ He looked around. ‘Give me the spoon from the mantel there.’
Birdie grasped the spoon, still sticky with linctus. ‘Do you want the linctus too?’
‘No, just the spoon. It will stop him from biting his tongue.’
Birdie turned away, unable to witness her father’s distress as Harry gently slid the spoon between Wilfred’s agitated lips.
Birdie sat in the chair beside her father’s bed. She watched Harry loosen the laces of her father’s boots, relief filling her as Wilfred seemed calm again. If it had not been for Harry, she dreaded to think what might have happened. But the spoon had prevented an accident and the seizure had gradually left his thin body. Then, taking Wilfred’s light weight, Harry had assisted him upstairs to the safety of the bedroom.
‘How are you feeling Dad?’ Birdie asked as Harry placed the boots under the bed and folded the counterpane over him.
Her father nodded slowly as he rested his head on the pillow. ‘Not bad, girl.’
‘I think the worst is over, Mr Connor, but you should see a doctor.’
At this, Wilfred stirred sharply. ‘No, lad. No!’
‘But it would be for the best.’
‘It won’t happen again,’ insisted Wilfred, coughing. ‘I just need a bit of shut-eye.’
Birdie took her father’s cold hand and, seeing the fear in his eyes, said softly, ‘I’ll do as you ask and not call the doctor this time, Dad.’
Wilfred smiled weakly. ‘It was just a touch of the ague, lass. I’ll have forty winks and be up on me feet in no time at all. Now draw them curtains and leave me be.’
Birdie’s knees were still trembling as she drew the heavy drapes and followed Harry downstairs.
‘I’ve never seen him so bad, nor ever want to again,’ she admitted as they stood in the kitchen. ‘Goodness knows what I would have done if you hadn’t come home, Harry.’ She nodded to the table. ‘Sit down for a moment, won’t you, and I’ll make us a brew?’
As Birdie boiled the water, she couldn’t help wondering if it was the talk of Frank that had brought Wilfred’s seizure on. In trying to defend Frank, had she made things worse? With Wilfred believing that his son’s cowardice had caused him to desert his post on the front line, there seemed nothing she could say to change his mind. The court had given its verdict and Frank had been pronounced a deserter. He had been sentenced to prison, bringing shame on himself and his family. Had their father forgotten that when their mother had died, Frank had been the strong shoulder to lean on? At sixteen, with baby Pat to care for, he’d done all he could to help her when his work in the docks allowed. He had been their breadwinner and protector, whilst Wilfred had been grieving, too wrapped up in his sorrow to care. It was Frank who had taken responsibility for the family and raised Pat. Birdie had never believed that her brother was capable of any crime, let alone desertion.
‘That tea you’re stirring will be getting too giddy to flow from the spout,’ Harry chuckled, sliding his hand through his wild black hair.
‘Oh!’ Birdie blushed as she came back to the present. ‘What am I doing?’
‘Here, let me help. Sit down and rest awhile.’
Birdie sank gratefully to the chair as Harry set out the mugs, poured the tea and placed the cosy over the pot. Birdie saw how burned brown his skin was, even in winter. No doubt this was from his service in the Middle East during the war. Even now he was out in all weathers, doing back-breaking work on the roads. The whites of his eyes were very bright and seemed to gleam like his straight, even teeth. He was a pleasant young man but without much desire to smarten his appearance. Unlike Don, she found herself comparing proudly. Don, her beau, who was the neatest and most dapper man she had ever known! Yet Harry seemed unconcerned about his looks. Perhaps it was because he seemed to have no girl in his life? He was barely thirty years old and had been eager to rejoin his regiment earlier in the year, but the bout of the jaundice that had interrupted his service lingered until the end of the war. Birdie always felt it was to the Connors’ good fortune that the armistice had been called and Harry had remained with them instead as a well-paying and trustworthy lodger.
‘I owe you me thanks, Harry,’ Birdie said quietly as he took the chair beside her. ‘Are you certain it was a seizure?’
Harry nodded. ‘A pal of mine in the Buffs went this way as a result of the shock and upset of the shelling.’
‘Shock and upset? Oh, so it might have been the words we had over Frank that set him off!’ she exclaimed helplessly.
Harry looked at her for some while before speaking. ‘Your father spoke only once to me of your brother. It was on the day I came to enquire after lodgings. He told me his son had been sentenced as a deserter. Said it might change my feelings towards lodging here, and he’d understand if I looked elsewhere.’
‘Harry, that’s the first I’ve heard of it.’
‘Your father is a fair man, Birdie. He made the case plain, so there should be no misunderstanding. But I told him it was no business of mine. I was grateful for a roof over my head in a decent house and with a decent family. In my opinion the war is past and should be set to rest.’
‘A grand way of thinking,’ said Birdie admiringly, wondering what Don would have to say about such a rare sentiment. Although Don hadn’t served in the war as he had done essential work on the underground railways, he was of the same mind as her father. She felt resigned to the fact now that Don went along with the general view of deserting, yet it was still a bone of contention between them. The Thornes were a proud family. Birdie knew that they had lost Stephen in battle, and both Aggie and Lydia stood taller for his sacrifice, making Frank’s desertion look even more disgraceful.
‘Where is Frank now?’ Harry asked after a moment.
Birdie found it a strange thing indeed to be talking about her brother so freely. It was only between her and Pat he was mentioned and then in whispers.
‘He wrote once or twice from Wandsworth. But his letters stopped when our dad wouldn’t hear of me visiting him.’
‘So you don’t share your father’s opinion?’ Harry asked.
‘Frank was my guardian angel when our mum died. Though he was only sixteen, barely five years older than me, I reckon he saved us from destitution,’ Birdie explained, a pain across her heart as she remembered. ‘He brought in a good wage from the docks, and paid a neighbour to look after Pat till I left school. Me dad didn’t have much left in him after he came home from the chemicals factory, stinking of their gases and still grieving for Mum.’
‘Then Frank has my greatest respect,’ answered Harry sincerely.
Birdie smiled sadly. ‘You’ll be the only living soul who’s ever said a kind word about my brother.’
‘What evidence did the Army have that he deserted?’ asked Harry.
Birdie could only shrug. ‘He was tried and found guilty. We was told he was lucky to have escaped the firing squad.’
‘It’s a true and shameful fact,’ nodded Harry with a hitch to his soft voice, ‘that many young men were mistaken for deserters and met their ends unjustly.’
Birdie had never shared such things with anyone before. It felt like a weight falling from her shoulders. ‘I don’t blame me dad for feeling the way he does,’ she conceded. ‘He went through a lot when Frank was put away. Ma Jenkins from number thirty-two was the first to say her four-penn’orth, going on about bad blood being in some families. And then there were the Carter sisters, gasbags both of them, who crossed the road to avoid him, their noses in the air. Though I’ve not let them get away with such bad behaviour and have stood in their way deliberate, like, with my arms across me chest and a fire in my eyes tha
t lets ’em know Birdie Connor won’t be ignored!’
Harry smiled. ‘Good for you, Birdie.’
‘And I’d have something to say to all the gossips that make young Pat’s life a misery,’ Birdie continued. ‘But I can’t fight his battles, much as I’m tempted.’ Birdie looked up and nodded at the faded photograph on the mantel. It stood beside a small statue of the Virgin Mary, a wooden rosary draped round it. ‘Our mum wouldn’t want that. Pat has to prove himself as a man now.’
Harry followed her stare. ‘A handsome woman, indeed.’
Birdie’s eyes glowed with pride. ‘It was taken in County Cork, Ireland where she was born. But there was no work there and so she came to London and met our dad. It was soon after they married that he got work at the chemical factory down by the docks. It was known to be a rotten job, and is what gave Dad his bad chest. But he kept at it, as there was nothing else better and he had a family to raise. Mum did sewing and cleaning, but it was barely enough to keep body and soul together. And when Mum died giving birth to Pat . . . well, our dad just gave up. He went in on himself like, and it was Frank who took over. Frank who kept us going and made more of a father to Pat than . . .’ she sighed again, glancing up into Harry’s thoughtful stare. ‘And what about you, Harry?’ she asked, regretting that she hadn’t done so before. ‘Your family?’
Harry’s face clouded. ‘Sadly, I have none.’
‘What, none at all?’
‘None that I know of.’ He smiled too quickly. ‘I’m the screaming scrap who was left on the orphanage doorstep, that’s me. Newborn they said, and took me age from that day.’
‘Oh, what a crime!’ Birdie’s voice softened with sadness. ‘How could a mother do such a thing?’
‘I’ve often wondered,’ Harry said quietly. ‘But over the years I’ve come to believe she may have been ill, or too young or poor to care for me. But she saw I was found, not left to the elements, and for that I’m thankful. And for the roof over me head that I was given at the orphanage, and turned me out with a thirst for freedom so fierce that I joined the navy at fourteen, a baker’s scullion and saw places and people that many have never seen in a lifetime.’