by Carol Rivers
Harry stirred the pot, hiding his smile. There was nothing of her, not really, with her quick little movements and straight back and happy disposition that beguilingly made him feel like he was part of their family. Though, he reprimanded himself swiftly, that was not a thought he’d be wise to cultivate. He knew darned well that some day he was going to have to leave the airey. There hadn’t been a lodgings he’d ever stayed in that hadn’t packed him off for one reason or another. Mostly it was family moving in: a long-lost daughter or son and their expanding family, an aged parent or distant uncle or aunt who had turned up on the doorstep. Households swelled like balloons in the East End, cramming in every available body.
‘Is me dad all right?’ Birdie asked then, pausing briefly her circuit of the kitchen to glance along the passage.
‘As right as ninepence,’ he nodded, ‘and will be even better when I’ve made him a brew.’
‘Now, you leave that and be off,’ she trilled, swiping the teaspoon from his hand and shutting him up with the surprise of it. ‘Get yourself to work, and tell your boss it was your landlady who made you late. A man has to earn his living and if he can’t be relied upon to turn up on time, then he’ll slip right down the pecking order.’
‘But I don’t have a—’ Harry began, intending to tell her he answered to no one but himself, but a small, urgent hand pushed at his shoulder.
‘Off you go. And thank you again.’ Her voice held a little tremble, her eyes not meeting his as a lock of hair fell across her face.
Harry watched the spoon twirl violently round the teapot, splashing the brown liquid until the lid snapped on. Then the mugs were laid out, one, two, three, and another, which made him wonder how many were going to turn up for a bevy – perhaps the whole street? – followed by the sugar bowl and several spoons. When the cosy went over the pot with such force, Harry saw the accident before it happened. The pot was at such an angle that it went flying across the table as though it had wings. Harry dived for it but the weight of the tea took it over the edge. In the next blink, the brown china was split messily apart on the floor.
‘Oh! Whatever made me do such a thing!’ cried Birdie, her hands over her mouth. And before he had time to prevent her, she’d pounced on the broken pieces, only to cry out again as she held up a bleeding finger.
Gently he took her, lifting her to her feet and led her to the sink. ‘See, it’s only one small cut. And fingers bleed a lot so it always looks worse.’ He turned on the tap, and they watched the blood disappear down the drain.
‘It’s me thimble finger too,’ she wailed as Harry held her still.
‘Where do you keep the bandages?’ he asked.
‘In the table drawer.’
‘Don’t move, now.’
Trusting her to stay where she was, he went to the drawer and opened it, finding the tin and the bandage. Then, grabbing the towel, he sat her down and set to work. In comparison to his big, rough hands, Birdie’s little fingers felt light as a child’s. They were all bendy and weightless, with nails shaped perfectly round and smooth. He’d never touched her before, never even brushed shoulders, but now he could feel her breath on his face and there was a certain smell – was it soap, or was it lemon? – some fragrance that sent the blood flowing straight to his cheeks.
‘I won’t win a prize for neatness,’ he tried lightly, clearing his throat with a manful cough, ‘but this will do the job.’
‘Thank you.’ She sat, as dainty as a flower, as quiet as a mouse, which alarmed him more than anything. She was always on her feet, flying here and there, talking and moving at a rate of knots. He found the pail and the mop and cleared the mess on the floor, and when all was restored to harmony he cautiously took the chair beside her.
‘Is it painful?’ he asked after a while and received no words as her head lowered and gave a little shake. He could see how thick and rich-looking her brown waves were, all a bit untidy, falling this way and that, and he had the unreasonable urge to reach out and lift the stray wisps aside. But of course, he didn’t. He was taking a liberty as it was, parking himself here, waiting for what, he didn’t quite know. Other than this gut feeling inside him, that something was amiss.
‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled again, almost too softly to hear.
‘It was only a teapot,’ he shrugged.
‘And now I’ve made you even later.’
‘Birdie, I’ve been trying to tell you it don’t matter. I’m my own boss and can do as I please.’ It came out sounding very grand and he could have kicked himself as her head snapped up.
‘Your own boss?’ she repeated.
‘Well, more or less,’ he reversed quickly. ‘I’ve just had a bit of luck since last summer . . . me and a few mates working together on the buildings . . .’
She smiled uncertainly. ‘All the same, I took advantage of your offer to stay with Dad for an hour,’ she insisted. ‘There was no need for me to delay, none at all, not if I’d come home straight away, instead of going off to the park and—’
‘I thought you said it was the buses,’ he frowned. ‘Being late, an’ all.’
‘The truth is I sat on a bench.’
Had something happened at the Thornes’? Not that it was his place to judge, but her being prepared to go over to Poplar at night, just for the benefit of . . . well, he shouldn’t think it, as it was none of his business. But that preening peacock she mooned over, the drip who could only fit her company in for two hours of a Sunday afternoon, well, he should be the one to come to her.
‘Is it something you’d like to talk over?’
‘No, I’m too embarrassed.’
‘Now, that’s certainly not like Birdie Connor,’ he teased.
There was a little groan. ‘Don’t look at me, then. I’m in a state.’ She tried to turn way again. ‘I’ve made a fool of meself, Harry.’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’ He grinned, relieved to see the crisis was over.
‘What would you say, then? What can you think of me?’ Her face was all pink and damp.
‘I think you had a good reason to take the long way,’ he said, gauging his words carefully. ‘And it’s not up to me to know why, but all the same, a problem shared is a problem halved.’
‘I suppose you’re right. The truth is, Don told me he was considering a date for our wedding. It was to be just after Christmas . . .’
To his own great surprise this news gave Harry an uncomfortable turn. Though he knew little about Birdie and her sweetheart, what he did know was mostly from Pat, who had little time for the grand romancer Donald Thorne. What the deuce he was playing at, not engaging himself formally to a girl like Birdie, Harry couldn’t guess. From the little he’d had to do with the man – a brief nod here and there, a dismissive greeting at best – Harry had never understood what a warm-hearted creature like Birdie could see in such a cool customer. Or perhaps it was the life of a shopkeeper that appealed to her? Undoubtedly that would present an attraction to many women. But somehow, he just couldn’t see it as being right for Birdie.
‘. . . according to the shop’s hours, naturally, as it will have to open in the afternoon,’ he heard her continuing. ‘And it will be fairer if we marry by licence at the register office where both families can attend. And even though I wasn’t to wear white satin, I’d have something nice, a suit for instance . . .’ she stopped, her lips trembling.
Harry tried to assemble all the information, but he’d had no formal training with women; no mother or sisters, only the elderly nurse at the orphanage who had poured a dose of cod liver oil down their throats every week. When he’d joined the merchant navy, he’d fallen headlong for a girl in Malta but she’d ditched him the next time the ship docked. Not that he’d remained in a state of mourning for long. Life had always tasted good to him, and there had been one or two pretty girls to wave him off from port.
‘So you’re saying,’ he began hesitantly, ‘this marrying arrangement – on the whole – is a good thing?’
; Birdie nodded slowly, her eyes staring straight into his. ‘Oh, yes – on the whole – a good thing. But it was the other thing,’ she faltered. ‘I just couldn’t! I just couldn’t! I’d give up me white wedding so it would all be fair, but I just couldn’t do that! It’s too cruel, Harry.’
‘What couldn’t you do?’
‘I couldn’t – no, wouldn’t – give up my own brother.’
Harry shook his head in puzzlement. ‘But why should you?’
It seemed all too much for her and she sank her head to her hands. ‘Don thinks there will be gossip and nastiness, as there was when he went to prison. And the only way to settle it is to cut Frank out.’
‘Ah, I see it now,’ he consoled as he tried to decipher the explanation that was drowned in her despair. He was listening intently, when the back door burst open.
‘Birdie! Birdie!’ shouted Pat as he rushed in. With his messenger boy’s hat on its elastic strung chokingly to the back of his neck, he pulled open his tunic buttons. ‘It’s Frank! I’ve seen him, large as life—’ He went red when he saw Harry. ‘Oh blimey, didn’t know you was home.’
Harry glanced awkwardly at Birdie. ‘I think I’d better make myself scarce.’
But she put her hand on his arm. ‘Close the door, Pat. Harry is like one of the family. He deserves to know the truth.’
The remark gave Harry a warm glow, for he had never been called family before.
Chapter 11
‘I opened me big mouth again, didn’t I?’ said Pat, as he took a seat at the table.
‘It’s a Connor trait, love. I’m guilty of it meself,’ Birdie admitted with a smile. ‘Now I’m dying to know what you have to say, but let’s start at the beginning for Harry’s benefit.’
Harry gave an awkward shrug. ‘Not a word will be breathed by me.’
‘You’ve heard more than enough to wonder what we’re up to,’ Birdie nodded. Harry had something about him she wanted to trust. It was even a relief, after her outpouring about Don. ‘I’ve seen Frank, Harry. He came here on the night he escaped. He was being taken to the isolation hospital as they thought he might have the pox. But he made a bolt for it and hid in our yard. Fair scared me witless, an’ all.’ She lifted her shoulders, turning to Pat. ‘I never told Pat, or anyone, not then, but the next day I met Frank at the park, under the arches. He’d spent the night on a barge and stank to high heaven, and his chin was covered in that red hair of his. So I cut off what I could with me scissors. He was so hungry that he swallowed what I gave him almost before I’d blinked.’ She caught her breath and added, ‘He’s innocent, Harry. Honest to God. He swears he never deserted. And I believe him.’
Pat nodded too. ‘Go on, tell Harry what he said.’
She looked into Harry’s dark eyes and told him about the farmhouse and how Frank couldn’t remember everything because of his injury. ‘But they must have been good people, since they got him back to our side, though only for him to be arrested.’
Harry nodded slowly. ‘Did Frank catch any names?’
‘Not that he can remember.’
Slowly she turned to Pat. ‘Now, love, what’s your story?’
Pat couldn’t wait to begin. ‘Me and Willie was starting off on our rounds,’ he rattled off, ‘and I was going across the fields, but before I get to Cutler Street warehouses, this figure steps out in front of me bicycle. I don’t recognize him at first. Along with a lot of other casuals, he’s humping a mutton carcass over his shoulder, wearing one of them aprons they use in the holds, to keep off the mess. His cap is down over his face. There is not an inch of red hair showing. His chin is as hairless as mine, and it’s only as we look into each other’s eyes that I see who it is. “Frank,” I gasp, pulling on me brakes, so I nearly go over the handlebars, “is it you?” But he keeps his head down and mutters that he’ll meet me at the back of the warehouses. So I go off as normal, but then I spot a copper, and it dawns on me, a moment earlier and I might have given Frank away.’
Birdie smiled encouragingly. ‘Well, you didn’t. Go on.’
‘So I whistle my way past the Bluebottle,’ Pat continued, gulping a breath, ‘and cycle twice round the block before I turn into the yards. There’s all these lorries being loaded and I couldn’t see Frank. Mind you, they all look the same, these casuals humping the meat from the holds. Then this person cuts across, without his apron, and I know it’s Frank. He nods to the far side, where there’s all these crates piled, ready for loading. I cycle on, making sure no one sees, and there’s Frank, waiting. I’m off my bicycle in a jiffy, and well . . .’ Pat passed his sleeve cross his damp nose, ‘he gives me this great hug, just like he used to when I was a kid. Then he looks around, and I look around—’
‘Pat, love, what did our Frank say?’ Birdie urged, unable to bear the suspense.
‘He wanted to know about us. So I told him about the law’s visit and you telling me about him coming round here. He says to tell you he’s fetched up all right with some mates, and the law won’t get wind of where he is.’
‘But where is it?’ Birdie asked impatiently. ‘And who are these mates?’
‘Don’t know, not till he finds me again.’
Birdie was beginning to realize how easily this might get out of hand. ‘Listen, Pat, I don’t want you meeting Frank without me being there. You’re not old enough to understand what’s going on.’
At this, Pat jumped to his feet. ‘I’m not a kid, Birdie. I’m fifteen next year and I earn my wage by fair means, not foul. I don’t scrounge off my family or go in late for work. And I put towards the housekeeping, don’t I, just the same as Harry? You’re treating me as if I don’t have a mind of me own,’ he cried, his face growing red. ‘And anyway, you can’t stop me.’
‘Pat, mind that tongue of yours—’ Birdie began, but he was tearing past her, striding out of the door.
‘He’s right,’ Harry said gently when they were alone. ‘He’s not a kid any more.’
‘He is to me,’ Birdie flung back. ‘It wasn’t a year or two ago that I was helping him with his schoolwork. Or mending the holes in his trouser knees from his playing in the street.’
Harry smiled and lifted his hands. ‘That year or two, I suppose, makes the difference.’
Birdie sank back on her chair and sighed. ‘Perhaps Don is right about Frank. I never gave it a thought that Pat might be harmed. Who are these people? Why are they taking an interest in Frank?’
‘Beats me,’ Harry replied quietly. ‘But Pat’s all for Frank and there’s an end to it.’
‘I wish I hadn’t—’ Birdie began, but the door opened and Wilfred stood there, rubbing his eyes.
‘Was that Pat I heard?’ he demanded.
Birdie took a breath and nodded. ‘He just called by for a bite to eat.’
Wilfred glared at Harry. ‘And where is that tea, lad? I close my eyes for ten minutes and wake up on me own, with the sound of boots on the stairs. I thought it was the law again.’
‘Sorry, Mr Connor,’ Harry apologized, standing up. ‘But—’
‘I’m just about to freshen the pot.’ Birdie threw Harry a sharp look. ‘And Harry’s off back to work, ain’t you, Harry?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ Harry nodded awkwardly. ‘I’ll be on my way.’
‘He needn’t have stayed in the first place,’ Wilfred complained argumentatively after Harry had gone. ‘And don’t make a brew for me. I’m off out to see me pals up the Quarry.’
‘Dad, I don’t think it’s wise to—’
‘I don’t bloody well care what you think, love. I feel like a trussed chicken hanging from a butcher’s hook, being kept in and fussed over. Now where’s me cap and coat?’
Ten minutes later, Birdie was sitting in front of her sewing machine, gazing into space. She seemed to have little influence with Pat these days, and her father refused to look after himself. What if he was taken ill at the pub or in the street? But he wouldn’t be told, and Pat wouldn’t either. Should she have taken more notice of Don?
Her thoughts went to him and she felt a strong yearning inside. Perhaps he knew best. She hadn’t thought so at the time, but what if Frank’s escape was to be the cause of many more troubles? She missed Don’s arms around her. She wanted to be his wife and he had, in his own way, made it possible. If she had known then, at the store, what she knew now, would she have agreed to his terms?
The door squeaked open and Pat stood there. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered.
‘Oh, come here, you daft ’ap’orth.’ She hauled him into her arms. ‘Just be careful, won’t you? Don’t do anything rash.’
‘I’ve got my ear to the ground,’ he grinned. ‘Just like the ’tec in the Penny Popular.’
Birdie smiled tenderly. Pat might think of himself as fully grown but his head was still filled with boyish dreams. ‘Pat, if you see Frank again, you will tell me, won’t you? You won’t do nothing in secret?’
‘Course I won’t.’ Pat’s grin spread wide. ‘I’d better get back to work now.’
‘I’ll cook you your favourite tonight, fried bread and bacon.’
‘And I’ll bring home a penn’orth of Sharp’s toffee.’ He kissed her cheek.
Birdie listened to his boots on the stairs, which sounded lighter than before. Happily, they had made up from the quarrel. But even so, she would continue to worry. She began her repairs for Lady Hailing, hindered a little by the bandage on her finger.
A smile touched her lips as she thought of Harry’s kindness. Could they trust him? There had been no choice but to explain about Frank and he certainly wasn’t of the same opinion as Don. But as the day wore on, Birdie still couldn’t forget Don’s words and his warning.
Frank grabbed hold of the big wooden chest and marvelled at the weight of its contents, heavy as a ton of bricks. But paper it was, all fresh from the machine in the cellar. Hadn’t he seen the little booklets for himself, with all that strange writing of squares and squiggles?
Inga, his translator and the woman who seemed to be in charge of the outfit, had explained how important the material was to those poor people in Russia, who were fighting for freedom. She was passionate about them. And though he didn’t understand it, he knew all about freedom. And he hoped, if he did them a good turn, then he was owed one back. At least, that was his master plan.