by Carol Rivers
Birdie was staring into space when suddenly her heart gave a lurch. Looking directly into her gaze there seemed to be another face, one on the other side of the glass. Birdie closed her eyes and opened them, very firmly, only to find her own reflection staring back again. Leaning closer to the glass, she searched the inky blackness outside. The silhouette of the closet became clear under the moonlight and she could just discern the outline of the broken gate that led to the back alley. But other than this, there was nothing. Not a single movement.
Birdie dried her hands and went to the back door. Cautiously opening it, she felt the cold air blow in with a rush. There was only the echo of the Kirby kids, three doors up, knocking seven bells out of one another. This was a reassuring sound and gave Birdie the courage to step out. Nothing moved but the breeze. Braving a step or two more, she jumped when next-door’s cat scooted across her path, but as the sounds of the river and the great city beyond filled the dark night, there was no movement, not even from the alley beyond.
It was a while before she turned back, telling herself how daft she was. Then a hand went over her mouth. Silently he carried her, with no effort at all, it seemed. As much as she wriggled, it was no use, her heart trying to fight its way out of her chest as she smelled the oil and tar on the palm of the man’s rough hand.
Though it was darker than an inkwell, Birdie knew she hadn’t been taken far. If she was to have her throat slit, it would be in her own back yard. The thought was of little comfort, but her panic eased at the sound of the soft Irish curse amongst the harsh cockney.
‘Quiet, gel. Bejesus, you’re kickin’ me shins black and blue.’
‘F . . . Frank?’ she stammered as the fingers slipped away from her mouth. ‘Is that you?’
‘It’s me. Now speak in a whisper.’
She felt her feet touch the ground as he lowered her. Then, in the moonlight she saw the face clearly. It was not Frank as she remembered him, but an older, more haggard version, with staring eyes, white-rimmed with fear.
‘Oh, Frank! Frank! Is it really you?’
‘I’ve made a bolt from the nick.’
Birdie gasped. ‘You’ve run away? But how? When?’
‘The guards from Wandsworth was taking me to the ’ospital.’
‘Are you ill?’
‘Nah, I got these spots.’ He pulled open his coat and scratched at his chest. ‘I reckon it’s the bloody lice and nits. They’re all over me, eating me alive. See?’ Birdie strained her eyes and got a strong whiff of unwashed body. ‘Last night I swelled up like a balloon and none of the screws would get near me in case it was the pox. So they shoved me in an ’ospital wagon and it was on me way there I hopped it.’ He raked his dirty fingernails over the sores on his face. ‘I still got these buggers but they ain’t nothin’ catching. If it was the pox, I’d surely be dead by now.’
‘Oh, Frank, won’t they punish you when they catch you?’
‘Yeah, but they haven’t yet.’
Birdie stared at the dishevelled bent figure that only vaguely resembled the good-looking, blue-eyed young man who had gone to war.
‘Don’t suppose Dad has changed his mind about me?’ Frank asked hopefully.
‘I wish I could say he had,’ confessed Birdie, her teeth chattering with cold. ‘But me and Pat don’t believe what they said. I told you so in me letters.’
‘Thanks for them, gel.’
‘What happened, Frank? Why did they judge you a deserter?’
‘They didn’t give me no chance to prove I wasn’t. One minute I was on the battlefield walking towards this Hun and then it all went black. Came round in this farmhouse, with a foreign lingo in me King Lears. This old geezer looked after me and eventually took me back to me unit.’
Suddenly the back door opened. A figure emerged and blocked the light of the window.
‘It’s Dad,’ croaked Birdie, and once more Frank’s big hand squeezed her shoulder as the silhouette was briefly illuminated by the light of a match. They remained still, until a few minutes later when, coughing softly, their father returned inside.
‘I been watching you all through the window,’ whispered Frank, scratching himself violently. ‘Who was that geezer sitting next to our Pat?’
‘That’s Harry Chambers, our lodger.’
‘Lodger? Is he kosher?’
‘He’s a very nice man, is Harry. Pays a good rent and never oversteps the mark.’
‘Does he know about me?’
‘Course he does. Oh, Frank, I’ve missed you. The house ain’t the same without you.’
‘Birdie, the coppers might come round.’
‘Dad won’t like that.’
‘I know, but I didn’t know where else to go. I ’oped the old man might’ve had a change of heart but I ain’t got a chance wiv him, have I?’
Birdie said nothing and Frank shook his head sadly. ‘Wouldn’t visit me in gaol, just wrote that he couldn’t forgive any man for deserting his post. Christ Almighty, Birdie, I’m his kin!’
‘I know, I know,’ Birdie nodded, ‘but you running away again isn’t going to help.’
‘I’ve got to prove I ain’t no deserter.’
‘But how will you do that?’
Frank shrugged. ‘Dunno, I got to think of a plan.’
‘Oh, Frank, I don’t know what to say. I’m worried about you.’ He smelled so unpleasant that she stepped back. ‘Where did you get this old coat?’
‘I found it in a bin.’
Birdie’s mind was racing. Should she try to persuade him to return to prison, where perhaps the authorities might lessen his punishment if he went back of his own accord? But if he was innocent, was this the only chance he’d ever have to prove that he was no deserter? If only she knew what to do for the best.
‘Listen, you can’t stay here, Frank. But there’s those old broken-up barges down on the silt. You could kip there and I could meet you tomorrow, bring clean clothes and food. I’ve got a couple of bob put by.’ She would take it from the rent, and think how to replace it later.
‘Would you do that for me, gel?’
‘Course I would. You’re me brother.’
‘Now I’m out, I don’t wanna go back to that hellhole.’
Birdie was doubtful that Frank would stay free for long; they would be looking for him, searching first south of the river and then the East End.
‘Where will we meet?’ she asked hurriedly.
‘The park, under the arches.’
‘All right. I’ll come about ten.’
‘Thanks, Birdie.’ He gave her a big hug and Birdie held her breath as the bad smell enveloped them.
‘Be careful, Frank.’
She watched him creep across the yard and lift the back gate. It had been missing a hinge, though Wilfred had tied string round the top and it creaked noisily.
Quietly she opened the back door and stepped in; perhaps no one had missed her. But then she heard her father calling.
‘Where have you been, gel?’ demanded Wilfred when she entered the warm parlour.
‘Thought you was making the cocoa,’ said Pat with a frown.
‘And so I was,’ Birdie retorted, hoping the flush on her cheeks didn’t show. ‘What’s wrong with a girl taking a breath of air, first?’
‘I had a smoke,’ said Wilfred with a frown. ‘Didn’t see you outside.’
‘I was in the alley, minding my own business, gazing up at the stars and hoping for five minutes’ peace.’ Birdie lifted her chin. ‘But seeing it’s doubtful I should have even that, I suppose I’d better be making those drinks!’
With that, Birdie hurried back to the kitchen, feeling guilty, as though she herself had committed a crime and lied into the bargain.
Frank was a wanted man, on the run from the law. How could she help him? Would the authorities come here? And would he turn up tomorrow as they’d arranged?
Chapter 4
It was nine o’clock the next morning when Birdie set off after telling Wilfred
a half-truth: that she was postponing the wash for a much-needed shop at the market. So, having gone via Cox Street, it was past ten by the time she got to the park.
The grass was the only stretch of green for miles around, save for the Fields, as everyone called the undeveloped piece of wasteland on the very southern tip of the island. Birdie cautiously glanced behind her; she’d had a curious feeling at Cox Street as she was badgering the old girl who ran the second-hand clothes stall, like someone was watching them. But when she’d paid for her purchases, then bought bread, cheese and a lump of ginger cake, stuffing them deep in her shopping bag, she was sure no one had followed her out of the market.
All the same, she was careful. She’d taken short cuts through the back alleys, and walked a big circle, waiting on the corner of the East India Dock Road to make certain she wasn’t followed. Now, as Birdie trod over the brittle grass, scuffed and holed by the kids’ boots, she gave a last glimpse over her shoulder. Save for two old men, smoking and stamping their feet to encourage warmth, the park was empty. Making her way towards the arches, she stopped by a plane tree. Leaning against its barren trunk, she waited as her eyes adjusted to the gloom under the railway line. No Frank. A mongrel dog lifted its leg and nosed for scraps. A sheet of old newspaper wrapped its way around the brick walls. In the far back yards, boarded up with broken bits, a woman in a headscarf, with an ancient perambulator, bounced it across the uneven ground.
Birdie left the tree, once more glancing over her shoulder. Could Frank see her? She didn’t like going under the arches. Sometimes old men slept there, sometimes the ‘parkie’ jumped out, boxing the boys’ ears for playing truant or warning the girls not to be so flighty. Years ago, she and Flo had made faces at the man who wielded power in the park, and to their cost. He’d found out who they were and reported them. A sin she’d had to confess to Father Flynn, receiving ten Hail Marys and one Our Father as penance.
Birdie smiled as she thought of it. Of Flo and her in church, giggling and not feeling in the least repentant.
Just then, her neck prickled cold. The alert sent her shoulders stiff and she let her eyes linger on the middle arch. She saw a figure, almost melting into the brick. It was still as a petrified rabbit, but it was Frank, she was certain.
Walking slowly, trying to look as though she was taking a stroll, with one hand in her coat pocket and her beret well down over her ears, she bent and tipped off her shoe as though she had a stone in it. But her eyes were raised and there was no one watching, the pram lady having vanished, leaving the two old men a far distance away.
‘Over here, Birdie.’
‘I’m coming.’
She slipped into the shadowy space. The voice had come from the very back where the thorns and pebbles and grass grew intermixed with the weeds.
‘Where are you?’
‘I’m sitting on me arse, waiting.’
She saw him then, crouched down, a look on his face of the hunted. His wild eyes had been robbed of their piercing blue but, as he pulled off his cap, his crown of ginger hair, which matched the growth on his chin, had never seemed more prominent.
‘Did anyone follow you?’ he rasped.
‘No,’ she replied, not wanting to alarm him with her vague feelings of unrest. She stood beside him, placing her basket on the ground and took out her purchases. A service able-looking overcoat, thick working trousers, a frayed but warm grey woollen jumper, a soft cloth cap and elderly but clean long johns. ‘I got these from the old girl’s stall at the market. And there’s cheese and bread and—’
‘You done good, Birdie. Real good.’
‘There’s a couple of bob in the overcoat pocket to see you through.’
‘You can’t afford that, gel.’
She waved her hand. ‘Frank, that ginger beard of yours is a dead giveaway.’
‘Don’t have no cutthroat, do I?’
‘No, but I’ve brought me scissors.’
‘Blimey, what you gonna do with them?’ Frank shrank away from the sight of the big dressmaking cutters.
‘What do you think? Now come here and let me do what I can. You can hide your hair under the cap, but you can’t disguise your beard.’
Positioning her brother behind one of the arches where the light flowed in, Birdie set to work, clipping away the growth, which was running alive with tiny, blood-sucking insects.
‘No wonder they thought you had the pox,’ she sighed as she cast aside the bits with her fingertips. ‘How long is it since you washed?’
‘Dunno. I forgot.’
‘There’s a finger of Lifebuoy in the overcoat pocket. Not much for the size of you, but enough for a strip wash before putting them clean clothes on.’
‘I’ll scrub up ternight in the river. Reckon the water will freeze me privates off, but the pen-and-ink is upsetting even me.’ He scratched the seeping red welts over his face. ‘What I wouldn’t give for a nice hot soak in the tin bath,’ he sighed longingly. ‘Remember when we used to drag it indoors in front of the range and fill it from the copper? I ain’t been clean since before the war. It was filth in the trenches, up to our eyes in mud and shit. I got a bad case of scurvy, like worms have crawled under my skin, in the nick and give me these blisters.’
Birdie reached into her bag for a small brown bottle. ‘A thimbleful of chloride of lime should do the trick.’
‘Don’t you put that on the walls?’
‘You’ll only need a drop or two, or maybe three for a big fella like yourself. It’ll burn something rotten, but it’ll put them off. Don’t get it in your eyes, mind.’
Frank stumbled over to the food. ‘I’m starvin’. Found meself a few scraps last night at the back of the rubber-dub-dub, but it weren’t much.’ He crouched amongst the weeds, tearing the bread and cheese with his teeth, plugging his mouth full, more quickly than he could swallow. Birdie wished she’d brought ale, but she’d spent right to the last halfpenny.
After a while, she kneeled beside him. ‘Did you find a barge last night?’
Frank wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Yer. One end of it was dry and I nodded off.’
‘No one saw you?’
‘Don’t fink so.’
Birdie’s heart felt as though it was split in two as she watched him eating, his animal grunts and groans and itchings all entwined. Was this her lovely brother, the good Catholic boy who had raised Pat, and worked all hours in the holds of the ships, and missed their mum so much that it was only she, Birdie, who knew that he’d cried out in the closet, stifling his sobs so he still appeared like a grown man when he came in.
‘Frank, I can’t stay long.’
‘You ain’t told me nothing about what’s been going on while I been away. You ain’t hitched yet? Don’t see no wedding ring.’
‘Don’s been . . . well, busy. He lost his dad last year to the flu, his brother the year before at the front.’
Frank stopped eating. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘He left the railways and now runs the store with Lydia and Aggie.’ Birdie added slowly, ‘We’ve yet to decide where we’ll live.’
‘You ain’t leaving home?’ Frank said in surprise.
Birdie straightened her back. ‘The store’s not such a bad place to live.’
‘What about Dad and Pat?’
‘Are they not able to look after themselves, and am I to be at their beck and call all me life?’ Birdie didn’t mean for a moment what she said. But it was an irritant lately that her care was taken for granted. She hadn’t spoken to her father or brother about living over the store when she was married. But then, moving was not what she wanted either. And now there was the question of Wilfred’s fitting too. Should she confide in Frank, but then didn’t the poor soul have enough worries of his own right this minute?
‘Does Dad ever talk about me?’ he asked, pausing and glancing at her from the corner of his eye.
Birdie was silent and wished she could think of something kind to say. But her hesitati
on caused Frank to thrust the last of the bread in his pocket with a despairing sigh.
‘But you’d be dead proud of our Pat,’ she rushed on. ‘Me and him talk of you all the time.’
‘It pains me to think of him,’ murmured Frank with a hitch to his voice. ‘He was no more than eleven when I left.’
‘He’s just like you, Frank, tall and strong. The PLA gave him a job in September. Got a messenger boy’s uniform, an’ all. Gives me three bob for his keep and rides a bicycle like the wind.’
Frank smiled. ‘Has he got a girl in tow?’
‘Says he’s going to travel the world first.’
‘Birdie, don’t let him think the worst of me for escapin’.’
‘He won’t do that, I promise.’
Birdie saw him turn away and draw his arm across his face. Then quickly he stood up, the wild look returning. ‘I’m goin’ now. I gotta stay ahead of the law.’
She stood too as he scooped the bundle of clothes under his arm. ‘Where will you go?’
‘I got somewhere in mind.’ He grinned.
‘A female is it, Francis Connor? Oh, I hope you know what you’re doing. For you might have been Jack-the-lad once, but in your current state, very few will want anything to do with you.’ She knew that Frank had always been a lovable rascal, and liked nothing more than to take a pretty girl for a stroll of a Friday night. He had very little money to spend from his casual work in the docks. And he’d always given Birdie first claim for the housekeeping. But he once knew how to enjoy himself, and perhaps there was still someone – someone special and who he trusted from the old days – who would risk helping an old friend?
‘You’re not to fret over me, gel. I’ve got me next move sussed.’
‘But how will I know where you are?’ she asked worriedly.
‘Listen, what you don’t know can’t hurt you.’
‘I’ll be worrying meself half to death not knowing.’