In the Bleak Midwinter

by Carol Rivers

  ‘Oh, you are a decent man to think like that, Harry Chambers.’

  He smiled cheerfully at her, the twist of his lips and twinkling eyes showing not a glimmer of self-pity. ‘Well, now that you’ve heard me life’s story I’d best be on me way,’ he chuckled.

  At the front door, he paused. ‘You know where I am if you need me. Don’t hesitate to knock.’

  ‘Indeed, I won’t,’ Birdie assured him as he returned his cap to his head and left for his rooms below. When Birdie heard the airey door close, she glanced left and right in the hope that Pat would appear. But the street was empty, save for the children playing after Sunday school.

  She shivered, gazing along March Street at the many tall, terraced, three-storeyed houses that were so blackened with soot and grime that even the dullest of lace curtains strung at the windows looked white. How lucky she and Frank had been to grow up as a family in this house, to know what it was like to have a mother and father, even though Bernadette’s life had been cut short. Harry had never had a family or a home. Not even a slum tenement over at Blackwall, or a derelict cottage on one of the foreshores. Yet, not a word of complaint had ever dropped from his lips. And what would she have done without his help today?

  Hugging herself, she went back in. All was silent and still. Could Harry be mistaken about these seizures? The only way to find out was to consult the doctor. But she knew Wilfred would not agree. After the shame brought on them by Frank, her father believed that people were eager to brand Wilfred Connor a malingerer, a pariah on society. Even though his poor health had been caused by the chemicals at the factory, he knew the sight of the doctor would give rise to gossip. Anything to confirm the fact that the Connors were cast in the same mould as their cowardly son.

  Birdie went in to the parlour. A chill was setting in. She gazed from the window through the carefully darned curtains to the street and wondered if she might just have time to finish stitching a seam or two before Don arrived. At the thought of him, her heart leaped; a great comfort after what had happened to Wilfred.

  It was late in the afternoon when Don finally arrived. Dressed in his dark blue Sunday-best suit, starched white shirt and neatly knotted tie, he was, as always, immaculately turned out. Not a hair on his head seemed out of place, the middle parting as straight as an arrow and his brown hair combed sleekly in a wave either side of the parting. He was an upright man and stood with his chest out and his shoulders back.

  Birdie never tired of admiring his clean-shaven chin, and though he was not a great height, perhaps five foot nine or so, he had elegant shoulders and a straight back that took a good-quality cloth very well. It was his smart appearance that had caught her eye one day early in 1914, a few months before war broke out. Dressed in his guard’s uniform, he had offered to carry her bags and Flo’s to the train that was to take them to Finsbury Park, where Flo’s aunt and uncle lived. They were to stay for a weekend, and had packed an enormous amount. He had smiled at her and talked in such a way that she had looked for him on their return journey. Fate had brought them together again, and when he told her that his family owned a store in Poplar, she had promised to shop there one day. And so their friendship had begun, to be interrupted by the war and its repercussions on their families, sometimes causing Birdie to doubt they would ever tie the knot.

  He bent to peck Birdie’s cheek. ‘I thought we might walk to the park,’ he said as Birdie led him into the parlour. ‘And then to Greenwich, if there’s time. It’s a pity we don’t have the day, but—’

  ‘It was heaven-sent that we didn’t go out this morning,’ interrupted Birdie, her words spilling out in a rush. ‘Sit down and I’ll tell you what happened.’

  Birdie saw a frown appear on Don’s smooth, high forehead as he sat on the couch. She thought how handsome he was. His wide-set hazel eyes, more green today than brown, were filled with a pinch of surprise. How flattered she felt that he had made every effort to disengage himself from his own family in order to make time for her.

  He looked critically at the hearth. ‘Brigid, the fire has gone out.’

  ‘We’re rationed a little on the coal.’

  ‘But the room is freezing.’

  ‘My customer doesn’t pay for the alterations until tomorrow. I’ll see the coalman then.’

  ‘But how is it you’re always running short?’

  Don shifted his position slightly in order to avoid the horsehair that leaked through a hole in the leather. They had had this conversation many times before. For some reason, Don’s opinion of her management of the household expenses was not very high. He’d hinted that when they were married, he would expect a sharper degree of accounting. But Birdie knew she didn’t overspend in the least. It was often a case of robbing Peter to pay Paul, as no two weeks ever tallied.

  ‘Shall I make us a cup of tea?’

  Don held out his hand. ‘Brigid, come and join me.’

  Eagerly she sat beside him. He bent and kissed her, his lips warm and inviting. ‘I like your waves,’ he murmured, ‘though I can’t imagine how long you spent in arranging them. Now, tell me all your news.’

  ‘Well,’ said Birdie slowly, blinking her long lashes in an effort not to try his patience, ‘it happened so quickly and I’ve no idea why – no idea at all.’ She placed her hand on her chest to calm herself and was glad to see that Don was still smiling. ‘This morning, Dad dressed and came to sit by the fire.’ She added quickly as she glanced at the lifeless embers, ‘Almost a bonfire it was, an’ all. Then suddenly he was coughing – no, not coughing, but heaving up his lungs. And his face was a dreadful colour, the shade of a sky full of thunder, and me heart started a dance in me chest as he was twisting and turning, sort of jerking, with his eyes rolling at the back of his head—’

  Don put up his hand and laughed. ‘Brigid, slow down. I can’t keep up with you.’

  At this little interruption, Birdie obediently took time to gulp a deep breath and clear her throat. ‘Well, it was like this,’ she faltered. ‘I ran for Pat, so I did. But he was not to be seen. And then I saw Harry. And Harry came in and said it was a seizure. So we put a spoon in his mouth—’

  ‘A spoon?’ Don repeated with a frown.

  ‘Yes, I didn’t think of it meself. But it stops the tongue from being harmed, you see.’

  ‘I think I see,’ said Don, bending to kiss her brow. ‘But how was your lodger to know this event was a seizure?’

  Birdie tried to concentrate, as the little spot where Don had kissed seemed to be tingling. ‘It was dead lucky really. Harry had a friend in the services, a soldier who suffered the shell shock. He took on in just the same way, though don’t ask me where they found the spoon in all the fighting.’

  Don drew back his shoulders and smiled. ‘You do have an imagination.’

  ‘It’s all true, I swear it.’

  ‘What was the doctor’s verdict when you called him?’

  Guiltily Birdie twisted the bow on her dress. ‘I’m afraid our dad refused to be seen.’

  ‘Refused?’ Don repeated, his eyes wide in disbelief. ‘But why should he do that?’

  ‘You know me dad don’t like a fuss.’

  He stared at her. ‘But in this instance surely?’

  Birdie had run out of breath and excuses, and for the first time was silent as Don studied her.

  ‘I think I should speak to your father.’

  She gripped his arm. ‘No, Don, he’s dozed off. And it’s the rest that’ll do him good.’

  ‘In that case,’ he murmured, drawing her close, ‘I see no reason why we shouldn’t take our walk.’

  Birdie’s heart sank. As much as she wanted to be with her sweetheart, she couldn’t leave her father alone. ‘A walk would be a fine thing, but not right this minute—’

  ‘Brigid,’ Don interrupted, holding her away, ‘this wouldn’t be a sulk, would it? Because of my postponement of our day together?’

  ‘A sulk?’ she repeated, eyes very wide. ‘Would you accuse me of
such a thing, Don?’

  ‘Listen, my sweet, you must understand that I had no choice this morning. Mother reminded me I’d promised to take her to the morning service. Prayers were said today for Father and Stephen. So of course, Lydia and James joined us.’

  ‘Of course,’ agreed Birdie, lifting her face and particularly her lips, hoping he would kiss her again.

  ‘I would have liked you to join us,’ Don continued regretfully. ‘And when we’re married, I hope that you might.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, Don. I’m a Catholic. Me dad would have something to say on the matter, so he would.’

  ‘But he’s not even a Catholic himself,’ Don said dismissively.

  ‘No, but our mum was. She brought us all up as Romans and Dad expects us to follow.’

  ‘We shall see,’ Don smiled as he kissed her.

  Birdie thought how much she loved him and wanted to be his wife. What did it really matter in what building a person worshipped? It was people that counted.

  Don kissed her so passionately that her body filled with delight. She was aching for love and for motherhood, for a family of her very own. And by Don’s eager embraces, she felt certain that he too, felt the same.

  At the loud shouts from the passage, Don let her go and she jumped to her feet, smoothing down her rumpled dress and adjusting her little bow with shaking fingers.

  ‘Pat, where have you been?’ she stammered as her brother flew in.

  ‘I called for Willie. We went up Poplar for a ha’penny of winkles and then I saw Harry. Is it true Dad took a turn?’

  ‘Good afternoon, young man,’ interrupted Don, standing up and straightening his tie.

  Pat returned a disagreeable mumble, and Birdie was about to check him when Don gave a sharp cough. ‘Whatever you’ve been told, Pat, none of us will know the truth until your father consults with the doctor.’

  Pat’s cheeks crimsoned. ‘Harry knows what he’s talking about. He’s been in the war.’

  ‘Pat!’ Birdie exclaimed. ‘Where are your manners?’

  ‘Can I see Dad?’

  ‘Not till you’ve washed that dirty face and combed your hair.’

  ‘Brigid, your brother’s behaviour has in no way improved,’ Don complained gently when they were alone, although his cheeks had gone a bright pink.

  ‘And I’ll be telling him so, never fear,’ Birdie agreed with a swift nod.

  ‘I don’t want that sort of talk rubbing off on James. Lydia would disapprove most strongly.’

  This remark set Birdie back for a moment. What had Lydia to do with the matter? There had been no agreement – yet – on living at the store with the Thornes.

  ‘Don, there’s something we should—’

  ‘My dear,’ Don interrupted, seeming to recover his good humour, ‘I think we should adjourn our day’s meeting, don’t you? After all, you have your brother and father to attend to.’ Swiftly he kissed her.

  ‘I wish you would stay.’

  ‘Go along now, and we’ll see each other next Sunday.’

  ‘Could you call in the week?’ she begged.

  ‘You know the answer to that as well as I do. My day doesn’t end when I close the shop doors. Not like it did when I worked for the railways when I came home and the evening was my own.’

  ‘I wish you were still on the railways,’ Birdie sighed, immediately regretting what she’d said as Don’s face clouded.

  ‘I had no choice but to leave,’ he reminded her. ‘Father built the business from nothing. And Stephen was his right arm. Whilst they were alive, I pursued my own career with a freedom that is denied me now. It was only fair to Lydia and Mother that I took over last year. It wasn’t my wish, but the store is a good livelihood, at least as good as any other.’

  Birdie felt very selfish for having voiced her true feelings. ‘Yes, I know, Don. A very good livelihood indeed.’

  ‘Goodbye, dear.’ He kissed her once more, then left.

  Birdie watched him stride down March Street, his upright figure soon disappearing as he turned into the alley towards Poplar.

  As Birdie’s eyes lingered she reflected on the terrible shame it was that they hadn’t been able to marry on her twenty-second birthday, as she’d hoped. She had met Don when she was twenty-one and he had been her only true beau. Had not the war been declared, perhaps she would have been Mrs Donald Thorne by now. Everyone had thought the conflict would be over by the Christmas and so Don had suggested a summer wedding. But as time wore on and more men were called to the front, Don had hesitated. He’d speculated that even though he worked for the railways, if Germany really put Britain to the test, every man in the nation would be needed.

  Thank God, Don had never been called up, thought Birdie gratefully. But just as her hopes reignited for marriage, along came the death of his brother and father, and once more their plans had taken a back seat.

  Birdie closed the door and gave a deep sigh. How sensible Flo had been to have persuaded Reg to marry her before he went to the front. And despite being wounded twice, Reg had survived the war. Not that Flo and Reg had two pennies to rub together, but they were still a family. She had a husband and children of her own, whilst she, Birdie, had a father and young brother who sometimes felt like her children. How long would it be before Don decided to slip a wedding band on her finger?

  Chapter 3

  ‘Now, didn’t that mutton stew slip down a treat?’ Birdie eagerly studied her father’s face, which, although gaunt and tired, looked a little more lively than it had this time a week ago. Since the seizure, she’d fed him up and watched him with an eagle eye, and had seen no signs of the shaking and jerking. All the same, she’d kept a spoon in her pinny pocket, just in case.

  Wilfred made no reply but gave a grunt of approval and sipped from the enamel mug that brimmed with water.

  ‘And I’ve baked a nice rice pudding for afters,’ Birdie continued encouragingly, ‘with a sprinkling of sugar on the top and browned to a crust, just as you like it.’ Removing his plate, which still held a knuckle, reluctant to waste the meat, she discreetly set it aside.

  ‘I’m finished now, Brigid.’ Wilfred stood up. ‘But I’m sure there are two stomachs at this table that still need filling.’

  ‘But, Dad, the rice pudding—’

  ‘I’ll sit meself down by the fire for a while.’

  Birdie watched him walk slowly out, the sound of his barking cough echoing in the passage.

  ‘I’ll eat Dad’s leftovers,’ offered Pat as he pushed forward his empty plate.

  In the warmth of the big kitchen, where the smell of the stew had risen up into the drying clothes overhead, two healthy faces stared at her. Both her brother and Harry had finished every scrap.

  ‘Ah, well, at least nothing is wasted with you, Pat,’ smiled Birdie, placing the knuckle on his plate and returning it with a spoonful of gravy. ‘Harry, will you have a little more broth?’

  ‘I’d rather see you eat it,’ Harry replied, a smudge of dirt still on his nose from his day of labouring. His black hair curled over his ears and crawled down to his open collar, which was also less than clean. But the poor man had been working all day, despite it being Sunday. Birdie noticed, that, although on the lean side, his arms were strong and muscular under his rolled-up shirtsleeves. And now that her eyes were in this area, she could see a button missing on his shirt. She said nothing, but made a mental note to repair it.

  ‘I can’t fit a spoonful more inside me,’ Birdie shrugged as she ladled a good helping over Harry’s spotless plate. It was decent manners of him to consider her, though. But having enjoyed one modest portion of stew, she had deliberately saved the lion’s share for the men. If there was any pudding left, she might have a thimbleful. After all, there was more than enough to go round tonight; Pat had paid his three bob and Harry had insisted she take two shillings more for his laundry. He was generous indeed, but it was never going to be said of Brigid Connor that she didn’t give her lodger a good innings for his bo
ard and keep.

  When the meal was over, Pat joined his father in the parlour, but Harry lingered. ‘That was a grand dinner, Birdie,’ he said as he took his empty dish to the draining board and placed it with the others. ‘Can I help with the dishes?’

  ‘No, but thank you for the offer,’ smiled Birdie.

  ‘In that case, I’ll bid you good night and look in on your father before I go.’

  ‘Good night, Harry.’

  As Birdie washed the dishes, she thought how their lodger had never been one to wear out his welcome, nor had he forgotten his manners. Why a healthy young man such as Harry wasn’t walking out a nice girl, she couldn’t fathom. He was a hard worker and decent-looking, and his money wasn’t wasted in the pub, nor was he daft in the head.

  Perhaps he relished his freedom after the years he had spent at war? Pensively smoothing the bar of Sunlight soap over the dirty dishes, she caught her reflection in the window and was happy to see that despite the hours she had spent in the steamy kitchen, her finger-waves were still in place – thanks to the Vaseline that Lady Hailing’s money had bought. Her frilled white blouse peeped above the cross of her pinny, looking as fresh as a daisy; a blouse she’d starched and ironed with such care for her outing with Don this afternoon. If only he could have spent longer in her company! But they’d hardly had time to walk to the park before having to turn back. The shop needed a good turn-out before tomorrow, he’d said, a duty, he’d impressed on Birdie, that was to be hers one day.

  At the memory of Don’s gentle hint, Birdie decided the very next time she saw him, she must speak her mind. If she was to be part of the business, then she would insist on a Saturday boy. Why, imagine her having to scrub that dirty floor where the Thornes stored the bundles of fire-wood tied with tarry string, placed almost on top of the creosote and the paraffin dispenser! In Birdie’s opinion, the perishables should be kept separate, for even Flo, who was not really that particular, had commented that she could taste tar on the Thornes’ butter!