In the Bleak Midwinter

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In the Bleak Midwinter Page 10

by Carol Rivers


  Together with the man called Erik – though not an English word had been said between them – they carried the heavy weight to the wagon that was drawn up in the stable yard. With an effort, the chest was hoisted on and covered by canvas, just like the previous six containers. The wagon was now fully loaded.

  Erik signalled Frank to lift the bales of straw on top of the chests, so disguising their cargo. When the canvas was secured and the two dray horses harnessed, Eric climbed over the bales, offering his hand down to help Frank.

  At that moment, Inga appeared, her face as usual, dirtied and unrecognizable under the brim of her cloth cap, which hid her wealth of silken black hair.

  Frank was both disturbed and excited at the sight of her. Dressed in coarse cloth trousers tucked into the tops of hardy, laced boots, and a navy-blue donkey jacket, she looked at first glance what she hoped to look: like a man. But it was her movement that gave her away, nimble and light, a glimpse of her womanly curves. Not that anyone would know, Frank thought admiringly. But he’d had time to study her over the past weeks. She was the most mysterious woman he had ever met. Also the most dangerous. She kept a small revolver with her at all times, and a blade, about six inches long, suspended from her belt and strapped to the outside of her leg. He knew this because he’d witnessed her almost using it.

  ‘We are late,’ she shouted at them. ‘Hurry!’

  Frank had learned not to argue. Inga had once pulled a knife on Erik. The argument had been over one of these crates, though Frank hadn’t understood a word. What he had understood was Inga’s authority. She’d flashed her hand to her belt and the knife appeared. In any language it was plain to see who was boss.

  Now Frank scrambled under the canvas and over the bales, sliding down into the recess at the back so that he lay top to toe with Eric. They grabbed the rope securing the bales and, together, edged them slowly over their heads.

  The sharp slap of the reins meant Inga was hurrying the horses. Her Russian cockney, ‘Get on!’ rippled back under the canvas and the wagon swayed into motion.

  The two men lay in the dusty, choking environment. Frank knew it would be like this all the way from the cellar to the Shadwell house. It was cramped and uncomfortable, but after the first trip he’d taken a cloth to put over his mouth. Now he didn’t need it; he was practised in the art of hiding.

  The day began cold and unsettled, just as Birdie felt herself. There hadn’t been word from Don and she’d said a whole rosary at Mass yesterday for his arrival on the doorstep. But he’d not appeared and Sunday seemed awfully long without him. Her pride had forbidden her from going to the store, even passing by it casually, as Flo had suggested when Birdie called for her this morning.

  Birdie had replied haughtily that if Don wanted to see her, then he knew where she lived. But secretly, the thought of her wedding day even though it wasn’t to be in church, disappearing from the marked spot in Lydia’s diary was very depressing. And it wasn’t easy to explain that to Flo as they strolled to Hailing House, although they did, for once, have the whole morning to themselves as Flo’s two girls had gone to see their grandma.

  ‘It’s the store, you see, getting the right moment to close it,’ began Birdie again, casting her eye up to the stormy clouds above and praying it wouldn’t rain. Her work was being ferried in the girls’ old pram, but Flo had lost the cover since Enid’s arrival.

  ‘You mean you can’t have a whole day to marry in?’ Flo questioned, wrinkling her small nose and pursing her lips, which were liberally coated in plum red. Under her short, fashionable bob of fair hair, she had defined two eyebrows in pencil that always made her look surprised. Flo loved make-up, as Birdie did, and had enjoyed the Hailings’ generosity, more so even than Birdie, who kept the effects to the minimum to please Don.

  ‘Aggie had offered to put on the food,’ Birdie added quickly. ‘So it might have run to an hour or so longer.’

  ‘Emily and Enid will be disappointed,’ Flo confirmed again, her blue eyes matching her blue coat, hat and scarf, which she wore with style, her hips swinging, her shoulders back. And Birdie noticed, a different pair of shoes had appeared on the scene. Not that they were new, but even second-hand ones without bunion bumps cost a pretty penny.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Birdie agreed. ‘I was going to make them lemon dresses with little crowns of flowers. I’d take special care with the lengths, an’ all, so they could use them again, but it’s to be at the registrar’s office, you see. Perhaps I’ll make them dresses anyway,’ she added quickly at the sight of Flo’s disapproving frown.

  ‘It won’t be the same,’ Flo answered sharply. ‘At two and three, being bridesmaids was just up their street. What has your dad to say about all this?’

  ‘I’ve not told him yet. And maybe I won’t have to. Not if it’s called off.’

  ‘Did Don say it was off?’

  ‘He don’t want me to have anything to do with Frank.’

  ‘What?’ Flo gasped.

  ‘Well, I couldn’t agree, of course,’ Birdie said quickly. ‘I’ll just have to think of a way round it.’

  ‘He’s got a bloody nerve, if you ask me,’ snarled Flo, pushing the pram up the kerb with some force.

  Birdie wanted to jump to Don’s defence and yet she felt loyal to Frank. ‘Don only wants the best for us. It wasn’t easy before, when Frank went to gaol. Aggie and Lydia had to contend with the gossip. Now Frank is on the loose, Don says it will start up again.’

  ‘Strikes me the Thornes can look after themselves,’ Flo replied scathingly. ‘Aggie is no shrinking violet, but a businesswoman through and through. I don’t know the other one much, though when I’ve shopped up Poplar and gone in their store, she don’t win my vote for being personable. And you know my opinion of their butter. If I didn’t know better I’d say it was stored by the paraffin. Can’t say much for their bacon either, or their cheese, and there is always a farthing put on if you’re not careful. Aggie Thorne has a shrewd eye and don’t miss a trick.’

  Birdie couldn’t say much as she knew Flo was right on all points. ‘Aggie and Lydia have both lost their husbands,’ she pointed out tactfully. ‘A double blow in just a handful of years.’

  ‘Yes, but they’ve got Don,’ Flo rallied. ‘He don’t shirk in his duty to them, does he? In fact, I’d say he puts their demands first.’

  ‘They are family,’ Birdie reminded her. She knew Flo didn’t have much time for the Thornes, though she would never admit it, not wanting to hurt her friend. But it could be noticed when Don was in their presence that she was always quiet and reserved.

  ‘Anyway, your Frank ain’t going out of his way to annoy them in particular!’ exclaimed Flo indignantly. ‘He’s done a bunk, but not to get up the Thornes’ noses.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Birdie thoughtfully as they passed the park. She recalled the day she had met Frank there and given him the clothes and food. He had been like a hunted animal, and once more she felt angry at those who hunted him.

  ‘There’s been no word from your brother?’ Flo glanced at her sharply.

  ‘Nothing more from the police,’ Birdie evaded. ‘Pat and me still don’t believe he’s deserted. One day his innocence will be proved.’

  ‘I’d feel the same way if it was my Reg,’ agreed Flo staunchly. ‘You hear all these stories about blokes deserting, but Reg says it’s the Army that want to put the fear of God up the troops to keep them in order. The only way to do that is shoot ’em or put them in prison, like Frank.’

  Birdie looked at Flo gratefully. ‘Thank God Frank didn’t get shot.’

  Flo wagged a finger. ‘Well, in my humble opinion, I think Don trying to make you chose between him and Frank is right out of order. If he loves you, he’ll have you on any terms. And sod his old girl and the war widow.’

  Again Birdie felt that inner unease again, for half of her agreed with Flo, the other half wanted to defend her true love. ‘Anyway,’ she reasoned as they turned the corner towards Hailing House, ‘Don migh
t come round and we’ll make up.’

  ‘He’ll lose out if he don’t. You’re a girl in a million.’

  ‘I’ll pay you later,’ Birdie giggled, and Flo joined in.

  Mrs Belcher had brought a tray of scones and tea to the meeting room at the back of Hailing House. Flo had just tucked into her second scone, whilst Birdie had unwrapped her parcel of alterations and was discussing them with Annabelle, the younger of the two sisters, and about Birdie’s own age.

  Birdie liked Annabelle very much. Mostly because she enjoyed the fashions of the time, always dressing as Birdie would have dressed if she’d had the chance. Or, more like it, the money, Birdie thought ruefully, as Annabelle brought out a swatch of flowery fabric that must cost a fortune if bought by the yard.

  ‘I’ve made a sketch.’ Annabelle showed Birdie the drawing she had made in a notebook. ‘I want something to cheer up Mummy’s dreary garden party at Easter. All the old relics will be wearing wool and tweeds. I’d like to give them something to stare at and cause a fuss. At least it will make the time go faster.’ Annabelle gave a peal of light laughter, but Birdie was impressed with what she saw. Annabelle had a real flair with her drawing. The hips were bound by a tangerine bow, tied at the base of the spine, and the long, simple bodice with delicate capped sleeves would enhance Annabelle’s slim figure. The wide brim of the hat she had drawn, with a matching tangerine band tucked into its weave, would look perfect with the addition of a rose.

  ‘I think it’s lovely.’ Birdie looked into Annabelle’s grey eyes and thought how every man she met must fall under her spell. Her soft brown hair was, like Flo’s, cut to the nape of her slender neck. The fine wool suit she wore was matched with an oyster-coloured silk scarf draped across one shoulder. She wasn’t as tall as Felicity, but she was small-boned and very elegant.

  ‘So will you make it for me, Birdie? I don’t trust anyone else. You know what I like. Mummy’s dressmaker is always trying to make me wear such frumpy things. Mummy likes her, of course, but then she would, as her taste hasn’t changed in decades!’

  Even Flo was laughing at this, and Birdie listened with amusement to Annabelle’s description of her last dull encounter with the hostess of a hunting party, prompting Annabelle to sneak away with a handsome beau and really enjoy herself. Annabelle moved in such privileged circles that Birdie was always surprised at her enthusiasm for the charity work on the island. Felicity, too, was dedicated to the cause, and was at this very moment helping Mrs Belcher to organize one of the two open kitchens of the week for the poor and destitute. After which, there would be a housewifery class for the women of the island, such as Birdie had attended as a child with her mother. Felicity and Annabelle had been children then, too. But in those days they had been rather remote figures, accompanying their mother, Lady Hailing, in the chauffeured car, rarely making an appearance in the House.

  ‘I’ll take your measurements, Lady Annabelle.’ Birdie loosened the string of her work-bag and brought out her tape measure. Annabelle lifted her arms, well acquainted with Birdie’s rigorous preliminaries, intent on having her work precise. ‘I’ll make the pattern from your drawing,’ said Birdie, ‘and then we can have the first fitting.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ Annabelle said as Birdie slipped the tape around her slim hips. ‘I’ll order the material from my people if you let me know how much you need.’

  Birdie was happy with this arrangement. She knew she would be able to work wonders with such quality cloth. She took the chance to nibble her scone and drank her tea whilst Annabelle talked to Flo; they all knew each other well now, and when Flo’s girls, Enid and Emily, came along, they were treated to something hot from Mrs Belcher’s oven.

  Annabelle was always eager to know about their lives, and though she spoke of many male admirers, Birdie knew she was as selective of her men as she was of her fabrics, for Annabelle and Felicity were heirs to a fortune.

  ‘Birdie, I hope you don’t mind me mentioning it,’ Annabelle said suddenly as she sipped her tea, small finger pointed out on the handle of the bone-china cup, ‘but one can’t help but be privy to so much . . . well, talk . . . here at the House. And my concern is for you . . . and only for you.’ She paused, her head tilted to one side, and Birdie blushed to the roots of her hair.

  ‘If you mean is it true about Frank,’ Birdie mumbled, ‘making an escape from prison, then yes, it is.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ sighed Annabelle, ‘how worrying for you and your family.’

  Birdie was filled with embarrassment although Annabelle looked genuinely upset. Stories of woe and hardship were not unfamiliar to the ‘slummers’, as the aristocratic ladies, were called.

  ‘Can my sister and I help in any way?’ Annabelle enquired softly.

  Birdie shook her head resolutely. ‘Thank you, but no.’

  ‘Well, you must say immediately if we can.’

  Birdie managed a smile and was relieved that Annabelle continued the conversation in a light and cheery tone, returning to the making of her frock and the little touches Birdie suggested.

  But by the time they left Hailing House, Birdie’s spirits had sunk. She knew she was unusually quiet as she and Flo made their way home with the pram, now bearing a new parcel of work. But Annabelle’s comments had only increased her unease rather than helped.

  ‘It was very nice of Annabelle to say about Frank in the way she did,’ Flo probed in a quiet voice as they turned past the rope factory. ‘S’pose she had to say somethin’, didn’t she?’

  Birdie sunk her head down in her collar against the chill wind. ‘She was only trying to be helpful, I reckon,’ Birdie nodded.

  ‘Listen, don’t feel bad,’ Flo said in her loyal way. ‘Your Frank is the last person prison should happen to. My Reg thinks so as well.’

  Birdie stopped then, putting her hand on the pram to halt it. She looked into Flo’s earnest blue eyes. ‘Are you just saying that to make me feel better, Flo?’

  ‘Course I’m not,’ Flo bellowed in astonishment. ‘I’m your mate and I’d stick by you no matter what, just like you would me. But me and Reg knew Frank before he joined up. And we know what a good bloke he is, no matter what anyone says.’

  ‘The mention of prison makes you feel dirty. You can put on a brave face, pretend you don’t care, but there are times, like when Annabelle said that, and yesterday at Mass when I saw people giving you and me stares, people we’ve been to church with for years. And even them down our street, like old Ma Jenkins and the two drippy sisters, Vi and Annie Carter . . . they still go out of their way to spread gossip—’

  ‘Flippin’ ’eck, Birdie!’ Flo interrupted, looking shocked. ‘This ain’t Brigid Connor I hear speaking. It’s some timid little kid frightened of her own shadow! I ain’t never heard you speak like this before.’

  ‘Frank’s never escaped before.’

  ‘And you could have stopped him, I suppose?’ demanded Flo archly. ‘You was the one who opened the prison gates and drove him out?’

  Birdie wanted to say that she might as well have. She could easily have tried to persuade him to return to prison that night in the back yard. He might have listened to her, the state he’d been in. But instead she’d encouraged him, clothed and fed him, cut away his beard, then given him money.

  ‘Come on, gel, buck up,’ Flo said then, patting her shoulder. ‘Things will work out, they always do.’

  But Birdie couldn’t see how they could. It was as though, in Annabelle’s eyes, she had seen herself for what she was, a poor little seamstress, not quite a charity case, but close enough, bravado and gumption being her second and third names, standing against the forces of law and order, to prove Frank innocent. Yet as the pity was directed towards her, she had seen the danger and hopelessness of their case. The expression in Annabelle’s eyes had put more shame and fear into her heart than an army of Bluebottles battering down the front door.

  Chapter 12

  Donald Thorne stared with alarm at the order book, running his finger
under today’s date in early December. He noted that Lydia had crossed out the articles Aggie had written down. Two distinct lines had been drawn through the twelve two-penny and three-penny bars of chocolate and the two dozen wooden clothes pegs. Despite his mother’s insistence these were necessary, the bone of contention over stock seemed to be ongoing. Placing his finger inside his spotlessly white collar and loosening its hold, he twisted his neck nervously.

  It was too annoying to be beset by both personal and business problems at the same time. His offer to Brigid of marrying soon had been more than generous. A little compliance on her part over that wretched man – the convict – was all he had asked for. Lydia had been aghast to think that Brigid had not agreed, though his mother, surprisingly, had not passed comment. But it was Aggie, rather than Brigid, who was at this very moment his cause for concern.

  Don assembled the problem in his thoughts. Aggie and Lydia had developed differing views regarding the stock. It had started in September, when James had begun school. A certain friction seemed to have sprung up between the two women. Not cross words – in fact sometimes he wished there were, if only to relieve him of being referee – but he found notes like this, or was given broad hints.

  Now he was in the awkward position of having to tell Aggie that the items in the order book, penned by her, had been struck through. And he knew why. Lydia was trying to exert some authority whilst Aggie was resisting. His mother had a mind for the smallest and rarest article, and cared little what state of freshness it was in, whilst Lydia was more modern and go-ahead. For all the years his mother had been selling, she should know best, Don reflected, though Lydia had spent enough time in the shop to try new ways, and Don was at pains to satisfy them both.

  Now he went slowly out to where his mother had already lowered the blinds with the pole. Beneath were set out the boxes of vegetables, fruit and assorted items that had a half-penny, at least, taken off them. One-inch bandages with their blue paper missing. Packets of soda gone rock hard, cauliflowers and cabbages mutilated by fly, and fruit that was so ripe, Don had once or twice shovelled the festering flesh into drains. But someone always seemed to want a bargain. His mother insisted there was a customer for everything if the price was right.

 

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